Digitizec 

1  by 

the  Internet 

Archive 

in  ^ui4 

https://archive.org/details/proseverse01hood 


PAET  FIEST. 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


NEW  YORK: 
GEO.  P.  PUTNAM  &  CO.,  10  PARK  PLACE. 

M  .  DCCC  .  LIII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1845,  by 
WILEY  &  PUTNAM, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  New-York. 


CONTENTS 

OF 

THE  FIRST  PART. 


PAOB. 

Editor's  Preface         .  vii 

I.  Preface  to  Hood's  Own.    1839    .  .  1 

BE.  The  Pugsley  Papers   ...  .  7 

III.  The  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram    .  21 

IV.  Black,  White  and  Brown        .  .  28 

V.  I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER              .         .  ,  34 

VI.  The  Portrait;  being  an  apology  for  not  making 

AN  ATTEMPT  ON  MY  OWN  LIFE             ...  36 

VII.  Literary  Reminiscences.— Introductory.  1839  41 

VIII.  My  Apology  ....  .49 

IX.  Literary  Reminiscences,  no.  i.  51 

X.          "                "           no.  ii.  59 

XI.          "               "           no.  in.  64 

XII.          «               «           no.  iv.  68 

XIII.  The  Lost  Heir                   .  101 

XIV  An  Undertaker                .  106 

XV,  Miss  Killmansegg  and  her  Precious  Leg  109 

HER  PEDIGREE           ...  it). 

HER  BIRTH       .          .                      .  .  Ill 

HER  CHRISTENING  116 

HER  CHILDHOOD         .  120 

HER  EDUCATION                                                          .  122 

HER  ACCIDENT                                                            '  .  126 

HER  PRECIOUS  LBS                                                    „  130 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

HI&  FAME                     .                                               ....  133 

UKB  FIRST  STEP                     .           ......  135 

SCR  FANCY  BALL    137 

HER  DREAM    145 

HSR  COURTSHIP                               ...                     .          .  150 

HKR  MARRIAQE                                  .           .....  154 

HER  HONEYMOON       .   162 

HER  MISERY                                        ,           .....  ICS 

HER  LAST  WILL                                          ■          •          •                     .  173 

HER  DEATH     i           .......          .  175 

HER  MORAL                 ......                     .  179 

XVI.  Fair  Inks    180 

XVII.  Ballad  .             .......  182 

XVIII.  Ruth                          .                    ....  183 

XIX.  Autumn        .    184 

XX.  Song   185 

XXI.  Ode  to  Melancholy                •  186 


CONTENTS 


OF 

THE  SECOND  PART. 


PA«B- 

XXII.  The  Great  Conflagration  .....  1 

XXIII.  A  Tale  of,  a  Trumpet         ....  32 

XXIV.  Boz  in  America   57 

XXV.  Copyright  and  Copywrong,  Letter  i.      .  73 

XXVI.  Letter  ii.     .       .  83 

XXVII.  Letter  hi.    .      .  92 

XXVIII.  Letter  iv.     .       .  103 
XXIX.                                              Letter  v.     .       .  113 

XXX.  Prospectus  to  Hood's  Magazine       .       .       .  123 

XXXI.  The  Haunted  House    126 

XXXII.  Life  in  the  Sick  Room   133 

XXXIII.  An  Autograph   .149 

XXXIV  Domestic  Mesmerism   153 

XXXV.  The  Elm  Tree   J  67 

XXXVI.  Lay  of  the  Laborer   183 

XXXVII.  The  Bridge  of  Sighs   202 

XXXVIII.  The  Lady's  Dream       ......  206 

XXXIX.  Song  of  the  Shirt       ......  210 


EDITOR'S  PREFACE. 


It  is  designed  to  embrace  in  the  present  collection  of  the 
writings  of  Thomas  Hood,  a  miscellany  which  shall  include 
his  more  serious  and  earnest  writings — those  which  were 
written  most  directly  from  the  heart,  which  reflect  most 
faithfully  his  life  and  opinions,  which  may  be  emphatically 
called  (as  he  himself  gave  name  to  a  book  which  has  con- 
tributed largely  to  these  pages)  Hood's  Own,  and  not  the 
bookseller's  own,  the  magazine's  own,  or  the  newspaper's 
own.  If  a  pension  had  been  given  to  Hood  earlier  in  his 
life,  it  would  have  probably  added  much  to  his  fame.  He 
would  have  had  the  opportunity  of  writing  only  when  his 
better  genius  prompted  him ;  he  would  not  have  been  com- 
pelled for  ever  to  glean  a  scanty  crop  from  the  surface  ;  he 
might  oftener  with  time  and  labor  have  penetrated  to  the 
ore  beneath.  He  might  have  been  less  of  a  Punster,  but 
he  would  have  been  more  of  a  Wit.  The  Poet — the 
higher  title — might  have  been  better  known  than  the  prose 
writer. 

With  the  exception  of  a  few  of  his  later  poems — the 
Bridge  of  Sighs,  the  Song  of  a  Shirt,  and  his  earlier  Eu- 
gene Aram — the  writings  of  Hood  which  have  been  circu- 
lated in  America  have  been  his  puns  and  jests,  comic  verses 


viii 


PREFACE. 


from  his  annuals,  farcical  letters  of  servants  and  others, 
after  the  manner  of  Winifred  Jenkins — clever  extrava- 
gances, seldom  deficient  in  literary  merit,  but  which  oftener 
conceal  the  man  from  the  reader  than  lead  the  latter  to 
suspect  the  tender  heart,  the  delicate  fancy,  hidden  be- 
neath. 

There  are  whole  volumes  of  Hood's  writings  which  ap- 
pear mere  whimsicality  and  grotesqueness  ;  there  are  pages 
which  indicate  the  genius  of  the  man,  and  will  be  worth 
more  to  posterity  than  the  volumes.  Frequently  since  his 
recent  death  Hood  has  been  called  a  great  author,  a  phrase 
used  not  inconsiderately  or  in  vain.  He  will  take  his  place 
among  the  English  classics.  How  he  was  great  is  a  ques- 
tion which  will  not  be  fully  answered  till  his  Life,  his  Cor- 
respondence, his  Complete  Writings — his  Poetical  works 
especially — have  been  given  to  the  world.  Many  good  men 
and  great  men  among  his  friends  will  add  their  tribute  of 
recollections ;  and  the  next  generation  will  see  the  man,  twin 
brother  in  heart  and  mind  to  Elia  whom  he  loved.  That  this 
volume,  undertaken  in  a  spirit  of  reverence  for  the  author, 
in  admiration  of  his  genius,  with  the  desire  that  he  should  be 
wisely  known,  will  be  cordially  received,  cannot  be  doubt- 
ed ;  but  it  is  sent  forth  accompanied  by  a  sigh  of  regret. 
The  task  of  the  editor  and  critic  seems  an  impertinence,  a 
piece  of  bitter  hypocrisy,  while  the  rights  of  the  author  (in 
his  representatives)  to  the  profits  of  his  own  labor  are  de- 
nied. Hood  died  poor,  and  his  widow  was  anticipating  the 
small  pittance  of  her  next  quarter's  government  pension  to 
pay  the  undertaker  while  the  American  public  was  laugh- 
ing over  his  latest  jest.  No  man  with  a  soul  capable  of 
enjoying  the  honest,  heartfelt  appeals  of  this  truly  humorous 
writer  can  deny  the  injustice  of  a  system  by  which  Hood 


PREFACE. 


was  deprived  of  the  least  participation  in  the  profits  of  his 
own  works  in  America.  In  the  second  part  of  this  Miscel- 
lany will  be  found  his  own  views  of  this  matter,  simply, 
manfully  stated,  as  it  is  incumbent  upon  every  man  to  as- 
sert, in  whatever  case  may  come  under  his  experience  or 
observation,  the  laws  of  Justice.  Self-respect,  self-inte- 
rest no  less  than  a  sense  of  justice,  require  the  recognition, 
on  our  statute  book,  of  the  rights  of  the  foreign  author. 
The  present  system  has  reached  that  point  in  the  develop- 
ment of  evil  where  a  wrong  being  committed,  every  one 
suffers,  no  one  is  benefited.  It  is  the  nature  of  wrong  to 
end  in  precisely  this  predicament.  The  foreign  author  con- 
fessedly is  injured  ;  the  American  author  (where  the  sys- 
tem allows  such  a  person  to  exist  at  all)  is  at  a  disadvan- 
tage at  every  turn  ;  the  bookselling  interest  is  deprived  of 
that  security  of  property,  based  upon  right,  which  is  essen- 
tial to  give  honor  and  dignity  to  trade ;  and  the  public  are 
not  the  gainers.  In  what  respect  is  the  nation  better  or 
wiser  for  the  floods  of  reprints  of  every  kind  and  quality 
which  have  been  poured  over  the  land  ?  In  every  respect 
the  people  are  worse  for  this  deluge — less  beneficial,  more 
destructive  than  the  natural  rain.  In  the  physical  world 
there  are  laws,  which,  if  violated,  would  destroy  the  har- 
vest. If  it  were  all  rain  or  all  sunshine,  the  crops  would 
cease.  A  similar  law  governs  our  intellectual  and  moral 
well-being.  Property  is  a  blessing,  but  it  is  only  so  when 
acquired  righteously  and  honestly.  Riches  are  valuable 
by  the  stamp  which  virtue  and  privation  set  upon  them. 
The  grand  law  of  morality  which  protects  the  rights  of 
the  author,  and  distributes  his  works  to  the  world  in  ac- 
cordance with  those  rights,  will  be  found  to  be  the  just 
measure  by  which  his  writings  can  be  received  with  any 


PREFACE. 


advantage.  A  complicated  system  of  checks  and  counter- 
checks— all  of  them  necessary — depends  upon  the  recogni- 
tion of  that  primary  right.  The  due  responsibility  of  the 
author,  the  force  of  his  character  depend  upon  it.  A  just 
competition,  the  sacred  right  to  be  "  free  and  equal "  be- 
tween the  native  and  the  foreign  author,  depend  upon  it. 
A  proper  Nationality  in  our  case  depends  upon  it.  Follow 
out  the  system  where  you  will,  it  will  be  found  here  as 
elsewhere,  that  only  the  just  and  right  are  profitable. 

Jtri/sr  1,  1845. 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


PREFACE  TO  HOOD'S  OWN. 

BEING 

AN  INAUGURAL  DISCOURSE  ON  A  CERTAIN  SYSTEM  OF 
PRACTICAL  PHILOSOPHY. 


Courteous  Reader  ! 

Presuming  that  you  have  known  something  of  the 
Comic  Annual  from  its  Child-Hood,  when  it  was  first  put  into 
half  binding  and  began  to  run  alone,  I  make  bold  to  consider  you 
as  an  old  friend  of  the  family,  and  shall  accordingly  treat  you 
with  all  the  freedom  and  confidence  that  pertain  to  such  ripe 
connexions. 

How  many  years  is  it,  think  you,  "since  we  were  firsl 
acquent  V 

"By  the  deep  nineV  sings  out  the  old  bald  Count  Fathom 
with  the  lead-line :  no  great  lapse  in  the  world's  chronology,  but 
a  space  of  infinite  importance  in  individual  history.  For  in- 
stance, it  has  wrought  a  serious  change  on  the  body,  if  not  on  the 
mind,  of  your  very  humble  servant ; — it  is  not,  however,  to  be- 
speak your  sympathy,  or  to  indulge  in  what  Lord  Byron  calls 
"  the  gloomy  vanity  of  drawing  from  self,"  that  I  allude  to  my 
personal  experience.  The  Scot  and  lot  character  of  the  dis- 
pensation forbids  me  to  think  that  the  world  in  general  can  be 
particularly  interested  in  the  state  of  my  Household  Sufferage, 
or  that  the  public  ear  will  be  as  open  to  my  Maladies  as  to  my 
Melodies.  The  simple  truth  is,  that,  being  a  wiser  but  not  sad- 
der man,  I  propose  to  admit  you  to  my  Private  View  of  a  sys- 
2 


a 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


tern  of  Practical  Cheerful  Philosophy,  thanks  to  which,  perchance, 
the  cranium  of  your  Humorist  is  still  secure  from  such  a  lec- 
ture as  was  delivered  over  the  skull  of  Poor  Yorick. 

In  the  absence  of  a  certain  thin  "  blue-and-yellow  "  visage, 
and  attenuated  figure, — whose  effigies  may  one  day  be  affixed 
to  the  present  work, — you  will  not  be  prepared  to  learn  that 
some  of  the  merriest  effusions  in  the  forthcoming  numbers  have 
been  the  relaxations  of  a  gentleman  literally  enjoying  bad  health 
— the  carnival,  so  to  speak,  of  a  personified  Jour  Maigre.  The 
very  fingers  so  aristocratically  slender,  that  now  hold  the  pen, 
hint  plainly  of  the  "  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to  :" — my  coats  have 
become  great  coats,  my  pantaloons  are  turned  into  trowsers,  and 
by  a  worse  bargain  than  Peter  Schlemihl's,  I  seem  to  have 
retained  my  shadow  and  sold  my  substance.  In  short,  as  hap- 
pens to  prematurely  old  port  wine,  I  am  of  a  bad  color  with  very 
little  body.  But  what  then  ?  That  emaciated  hand  still  lends 
a  hand  to  embody  in  words  and  sketches  the  creations  or  recre- 
ations of  a  Merry  Fancy  :  those  gaunt  sides  yet  shake  heartily 
as  ever  at  the  Grotesques  and  Arabesques  and  droll  Picturesques 
that  my  Good  Genius  (a  Pantagruelian  Familiar)  charitably 
conjures  up  to  divert  me  from  more  sombre  realities.  It  was 
the  whim  of  a  late  pleasant  Comedian,  to  suppose  a  set  of  spiteful 
imps  sitting  up  aloft,  to  aggravate  all  his  petty  mundane  annoy- 
ances ;  whereas  I  prefer  to  believe  in  the  ministry  of  kindlier 
Elves  that  "  nod  to  me  and  do  me  courtesies. "  Instead  of  scar- 
ing away  these  motes  in  the  sunbeam,  I  earnestly  invoke  them, 
and  bid  them  welcome ;  for  the  tricksy  spirits  make  friends  with 
the  animal  spirits,  and  do  not  I,  like  a  father  romping  with  his 
own  urchins, — do  not  I  forget  half  my  cares  whilst  partaking  in 
their  airy  gambols  ?  Such  sports  are  as  wholesome  for  the  mind 
as  the  other  frolics  for  the  body.  For  on  our  own  treatment  of 
that  excellent  Friend  or  terrible  Enemy  the  Imagination,  it  de- 
pends whether  we  are  to  be  scared  and  haunted  by  a  Scratching 
Fanny,  or  tended  by  an  affectionate  Invisible  Girl — like  an  un 
known  Love,  blessing  us  with  "  favors  secret,  sweet,  and  pre- 
cious," and  fondly  stealing  us  from  this  worky-day  world  to  a 
6unny  sphere  of  her  own. 


PREFACE  TO  HOOD'S  OWN. 


3 


This  is  a  novel  version,  Reader,  of  "  Paradise  and  the  Peri," 
but  it  is  as  true  as  it  is  new.  How  else  could  I  have  conveited 
a  serious  illness  into  a  comic  wellness — by  what  other  agency 
could  I  have  transported  myself,  as  a  Cockney  would  say,  from 
Dullage  to  Grinnage  ?  It  was  far  from  a  practical  joke  to  be 
laid  up  in  ordinary  in  a  foreign  land,  under  the  care  of  Physi- 
cians quite  as  much  abroad  as  myself  with  the  case  ;  indeed 
the  shades  of  the  gloaming  were  stealing  over  my  prospect ;  but 
I  resolved  that,  like  the  sun,  so  long  as  my  day  lasted,  I  would 
look  on  the  bright  side  of  everything.  The  raven  croaked,  but 
I  persuaded  myself  that  it  was  the  nightingale  :  there  was  the 
smell  of  the  mould,  but  I  remembered  that  it  nourished  the  vio- 
lets. However  my  body  might  cry  craven,  my  mind  luckily 
had  no  mind  to  give  in.  So,  instead  of  mounting  on  the  black 
long-tailed  coach  horse,  she  vaulted  on  her  old  Hobby  that  had 
capered  in  the  Morris-Dance,  and  began  to  exhort  from  his  back. 
To  be  sure,  said  she,  matters  look  darkly  enough  ;  but  the  more 
need  for  the  lights.  Allons  !  Courage  !  Things  may  take  a 
turn,  as  the  pig  said  on  the  spit.  Never  throw  down  your  cards, 
but  play  out  the  game.  The  more  certain  to  lose,  the  wiser  to 
get  all  the  play  you  can  for  your  money.  Come — give  us  a 
song !  chirp  away  like  that  best  of  cricket-players,  the  cricket 
himself.  Be  bowled  out  or  caught  out,  but  never  throw  down 
the  bat.  As  to  Health,  it 's  the  weather  of  the  body — it  hails,  it 
rains,  it  blows,  it  snows,  at  present,  but  it  may  clear  up  by-and-by. 
You  cannot  eat,  you  say,  and  you  must  not  drink  ;  but  laugh 
and  make  believe,  like  the  Barber's  wise  brother  at  the  Barme- 
cide's feast.  Then,  as  to  thinness,  not  to  flatter,  you  look  like  a 
lath  that  has  had  a  split  with  the  carpenter  and  a  fall  out  with 
the  plaster  ;  but  so  much  the  better  :  remember  how  the  smug- 
glers trim  the  sails  of  the  lugger  to  escape  the  notice  of  the 
cutter.  Turn  your  edge  to  the  old  enemy,  and  mayhap  he  won't 
see  you  !  Come — be  alive  !  You  have  no  more  right  to  slight 
your  life  than  to  neglect  your  wife — they  are  the  two  better 
halves  that  make  a  man  of  you !  Is  not  life  your  means  of 
living  ?  so  stick  to  thy  business  and  thy  business  will  stick  to 
thee.  Of  course,  continued  my  mind,  I  am  quite  disinterested 
in  this  advice — for  I  am  aware  of  my  own  immortality — but  for 


4 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


that  very  reason,  take  care  of  the  mortal  body,  poor  body,  and 
give  it  as  long  a  day  as  you  can  ! 

Now,  my  mind  seeming  to  treat  the  matter  very  pleasantly  as 
well  as  profitably,  1  followed  her  counsel,  and  instead  of  calling 
out  for  relief  according  to  the  fable,  I  kept  along  on  my  journey, 
with  my  bundle  of  sticks, — i.  e.  my  arms  and  legs.  Between 
ourselves  it  would  have  been  "  extremely  inconvenient,"  as  I 
once  heard  the  opium-eater  declare,  to  pay  the  debt  of  nature  at 
that  particular  juncture  ;  nor  do  I  quite  know,  to  be  candid, 
when  it  would  altogether  suit  me  to  settle  it,  so,  like  other  parties 
in  narrow  circumstances,  I  laughed,  and  gossipped,  and  played 
the  agreeable  with  all  my  might,  and  as  such  pleasant  behavkr 
sometimes  obtains  a  respite  from  a  human  creditor,  who  knows 
but  that  it  may  prove  successful  with  the  Universal  Mortgagee  ? 
At  all  events,  here  I  am,  humming  "  Jack's  Alive  !"  and  my 
own  dear  skilful  native  physician  gives  me  hopes  of  a  longer 
lease  than  appeared  from  the  foreign  reading  of  the  covenants. 
He  declares  indeed,  that,  anatomically,  my  heart  is  lower  hung 
than  usual — but  what  of  that  %  The  more  need  to  keep  it  up  ! 
So  huzza  !  my  boys  !  Comus  and  Momus  for  ever  !  No  Hera- 
clitus  !  Nine  times  nine  for  Democritus  !  And  here  goes  my 
last  bottle  of  Elixir  at  the  heads  of  the  Blue  Devils — be  they 
Prussian  blue  or  indigo,  powder-blue  or  ultramarine  ! 

Gentle  reader,  how  do  you  like  this  Laughing  Philosophy  ? 
The' joyous  cheers  you  have  just  heard,  come  from  a  crazy  vessel 
that  has  clawed,  by  miracle,  off  a  lee-shore,  and  I,  the  skipper, 
am  sitting  down  to  my  grog,  and  re-counting  to  you  the  tale  of 
the  pas*  danger,  with  the  manoeuvres  that  were  used  to  escape 
the  perilous  Point.  Or  rather,  consider  me  as  the  Director  of  a 
Life  Assurance,  pointing  out  to  you  a  most  beneficial  policy, 
whereby  you  may  eke  out  your  natural  term.  And,  firstly,  take 
precious  care  of  your  precious  health, — but  how,  as  the  house- 
wives say,  to  make  it  keep  ?  Why  then,  don't  cure  and  smoke- 
dry  it — or  pickle  it  in  everlasting  acids — like  the  Germans. 
Don't  bury  it  in  a  potato-pit,  like  the  Irish.  Don't  preserve  it  in 
spirits,  like  the  Barbadians.  Don't  salt  it  down,  like  the  New. 
foundlanders.  Don't  pack  it  in  ice,  like  Captain  Back.  Don't 
parboil  it  in  Hot  Baths.    Don't  bottle  it,  like  gooseberries.  Don't 


PREFACE  TO  HOOD'S  OWN. 


5 


pot  it — and  don't  hang  it.  A  rope  is  a  bad  Cordon  Sanitaire. 
Above  all,  don't  despond  about  it.  Let  not  anxiety  "  have  thee 
on  the  hyp."  Consider  your  health  as  your  best  friend,  and 
think  as  well  of  it,  in  spite  of  all  its  foibles,  as  you  can.  For 
instance,  never  dream,  though  you  may  have  a  "  clever  hack," 
of  galloping  consumption,  or  indulge  in  the  Meltonian  belief,  that 
you  are  going  the  pace.  Never  fancy  every  time  you  cough, 
that  you  are  going  to  coughypot.  Hold  up,  as  the  shooter  says, 
over  the  heaviest  ground.  Despondency  in  a  nice  case  is  the 
over-weight  that  may  make  you  kick  the  beam  and  the  bucket 
both  at  once.  In  short,  as  with  other  cases,  never  meet  trouble 
half-way,  but  let  him  have  the  whole  walk  for  his  pains  ; 
though  it  should  be  a  Scotch  mile  and  a  bittock.  I  have  even 
known  him  to  give  up  his  visit  in  sight  of  the  house.  Besides, 
the  best  fence  against  care  is  a  ha  !  ha  ! — wherefore  take  care 
to  have  one  all  round  you  wherever  you  can.  Let  your  "  lungs 
crow  like  Chanticleer,"  and  as  like  a  Game  cock  as  possible. 
It  expands  the  chest,  enlarges  the  heart,  quickens  the  circula- 
tion, and  "  like  a  trumpet  makes  the  spirits  dance." 

A  fico  then  for  the  Chesterfieldian  canon,  that  laughter  is  an 
ungenteel  emotion.  Smiles  are  tolerated  by  the  very  pinks  of 
politeness  ;  and  a  laugh  is  but  the  full-blown  flower  of  which  a 
smile  is  the  bud.  It  is  a  sort  of  vocal  music — a  glee  in  which 
everybody  can  take  a  part : — and  "  he  who  hath  not  laughter  in 
his  soul,  let  no  such  man  be  trusted."  Indeed,  there  are  two 
classes  of  Querists  particularly  to  be  shunned ;  thus  when  you 
hear  a  Cui  Bono  ?  be  sure  to  leave  the  room ;  but  if  it  be  Quid 
Rides  ?  make  a  point  to  quit  the  house,  and  forget  to  take  its 
number.  None  but  your  dull  dogs  would  give  tongue  in  such 
a  style  ; — for,  as  Nimrod  says  in  his  "  Hunt  after  Happiness," 
"  A  single  hurst  with  Mirth  is  worth  a  whole  season  of  full  cries 
with  Melancholy." 

Such,  dear  reader,  is  the  cheerful  Philosophy  which  I  practise 
as  well  as  preach.  It  teaches  to  "  make  a  sunshine  in  a  shady 
place,"  to  render  the  mind  independent  of  external  foul  weather, 
by  compelling  it,  as  old  Absolute  says,  to  get  a  sun  and  moon 
of  its  own.  As  the  system  has  worked  so  well  in  my  own  case, 
it  is  a  duty  to  recommend  it  to  others :  and  like  certain  practi- 


6 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


doners,  who  not  only  prescribe  but  dispense  their  own  medicines, 
I  have  prepared  a  regular  course  of  light  reading,  whereof  I 
now  present  the  first  packet,  in  the  humble  hope  that  your  dull 
hours  may  be  amused,  and  your  cares  diverted,  by  the  laughing 
lucubrations  which  have  enlivened  Hood's  Own. 


THE  PUGSLEY  PAPERS. 


7 


THE  PUGSLEY  PAPERS. 


How  the  following  correspondence  came  into  my  hands  must 
remain  a  Waverley  mystery.  The  Pugsley  Papers  were  neither 
rescued  from  a  garret,  like  Evelyn, — collected  from  cartridges 
like  the  Culloden, — nor  saved,  like  the  Garrick,  from  being 
shredded  into  a  snow  storm  at  a  Winter  Theatre.  They  were 
not  snatched  from  a  tailor's  shears,  like  the  original  parchment 
of  Magna  Charta.  They  were  neither  the  Legacy  of  a  Dominie, 
nor  the  communications  of  My  Landlord, — a  consignment,  like 
the  Clinker  Letters,  from  some  Rev.  Jonathan  Dustwich, — nor 
the  waifs  and  strays  of  a  Twopenny  Post  Bag.  They  were  not 
unrolled  from  ancient  papyri.  They  were  none  of  those  that 
**  line  trunks,  clothe  spices,"  or  paper  the  walls  of  old  attics. 
The}T  were  neither  given  to  me  nor  sold  to  me, — nor  stolen, — 
nor  borrowed  and  surreptitiously  copied, — nor  left  in  a  hackney 
coach,  like  Sheridan's  play, — nor  misdelivered  by  a  carrier 
pigeon, — nor  dreamt  of,  like  Coleridge's  Kubla  Khan, — nor 
turned  up  in  the  Tower,  like  Milton's  Foundling  MS., — nor  dug 
up, — nor  trumped  up,  like  eastern  tales  of  Horam  harum 
Horam  the  son  of  Asmar, — nor  brought  over  by  Rammohun 
Roy, — nor  translated  by  Doctor  Bowring  from  the  Scandinavian, 
Batavian,  Pomeranian,  Spanish,  or  Danish,  or  Russian,  or  Prus- 
sian, or  any  other  language  dead  or  living.  They  were  not 
picked  from  the  Dead  Letter  Office,  nor  purloined  from  the 
British  Museum.  In  short,  I  cannot,  darii  not,  will  not,  hint 
even  at  the  mode  of  their  acquisition :  the  reader  must  be  con- 
tent to  know,  that,  in  point  of  authenticity,  the  Pugsley  Papers 
are  the  extreme  reverse  of  Lady  L.'s  celebrated  Autographs, 
wjiich  were  all  written  by  the  proprietor. 


8 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


No.  I. — From  Master  Richard  Pugsley,  to  Master  Robert 
Rogers,  at  Number  132,  Barbican. 

Dear  Bob, 

Huzza! — Here  I  am  in  Lincolnshire  !  It's  good-bye  to  Wel- 
lingtons and  Cossacks,  Ladies'  double  channels,  Gentlemen's 
stout  calf,  and  ditto  ditto.  They've  all  been  sold  off  under 
prime  cost,  and  the  old  Shoe  Mart  is  disposed  of,  goodwill  and 
fixtures,  for  ever  and  ever.  Father  has  been  made  a  rich 
Squire  of  by  will,  and  we've  got  a  house  and  fields,  and  trees 
of  our  own.    Such  a  garden,  Bob  ! — It  beats  White  Conduit. 

Now,  Bob,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want.  I  want  you  to  come 
down  here  for  the  holidays.  Don't  be  afraid.  Ask  your  Sister 
to  ask  your  Mother  to  ask  your  Father  to  let  you  come.  It's 
only  ninety  miles.  If  you're  out  of  pocket  money,  you  can  walk, 
and  beg  a  lift  now  and  then,  or  swing  by  the  dickeys.  Put  on 
cordroys,  and  don't  care  for  cut  behind.  The  two  prentices, 
George  and  Will,  are  here  to  be  made  farmers  of,  and  brother 
Nick  is  took  home  from  school  to  help  in  agriculture.  We  like 
farming  very  much,  it's  capital  fun.  Us  four  have  got  a  gun, 
and  go  out  shooting :  it's  a  famous  good  un,  and  sure  to  go  off 
if  you  don't  full  cock  it.  Tiger  is  to  be  our  shooting  dog  as 
soon  as  he  has  left  off  killing  the  sheep.  He's  a  real  savage, 
and  worries  cats  beautiful.  Before  Father  comes  down,  we 
mean  to  bait  our  bull  with  him. 

There's  plenty  of  New  Rivers  about,  and  we're  going  a 
fishing  as  soon  as  we  have  mended  our  top  joint.  We've 
killed  one  of  our  sheep  on  the  sly  to  get  gentles.  We've  a  pony 
too,  to  ride  upon  when  we  can  catch  him,  but  he's  loose  in  the 
paddock,  and  has  neither  mane  nor  tail  to  signify  to  lay  hold  of. 
Isn't  it  prime,  Bob  ?  You  must  come.  If  your  Mother  won't 
give  your  Father  leave  to  allow  you, — run  away.  Remember, 
you  turn  up  Goswell  Street  to  go  to  Lincolnshire,  and  ask  for 
Middlefen  Hall.  There's  a  pond  full  of  frogs,  but  we  won't 
pelt  them  till  you  come,  but  let  it  be  before  Sunday,  as  there's 
our  own  orchard  to  rob,  and  the  fruit's  to  be  gathered  on  Mon 
day. 

If  you  like  sucking  raw  eggs,  we  know  where  the  hens  lay, 


THE  PUGSLEY  PAPERS 


9 


and  mother  don't ;  and  I'm  bound  there's  lots  of  birds'  nests. 
Do  come.  Bob,  and  I'll  show  you  the  wasps'  nest,  and  every- 
thing that  can  make  you  comfortable.  I  dare  say  you  could 
borrow  your  father's  volunteer  musket  of  him  without  his  know- 
ing of  it;  but  be  sure  anyhow  to  bring  the  ramrod,  as  we  have 
mislaid  ours  by  firing  it  ofF.  Don't  forget  some  bird-lime,  Bob — 
and  some  fish-hooks — and  some  different  sorts  of  shot — and  some 
gut  and  some  gunpowder — and  a  gentle-box,  and  some  flints.—* 
some  May  flies, — and  a  powder  horn, — and  a  landing  net  and  a 
dog-whistle — and  some  porcupine  quills,  and  a  bullet  mould — 
and  a  trolling-winch,  and  a  shot-belt  and  a  tin  can.  You  pay 
for  'em,  Bob,  and  I'll  owe  it  you. 

Your  old  friend  and  schoolfellow, 

Richard  Pugsley. 


No.  II. — From  the  Same  to  the  Same. 
Dear  Bob, 

When  you  come,  bring  us  a  'bacco-pipe  to  load  the  gun  with. 
If  you  don't  come,  it  can  come  by  the  wagon.  Our  Public 
House  is  three  mile  off,  and  when  you've  walked  there  it's  out 
of  everything.    Yours,  &c, 

Rich.  Pugsley. 


No.  III. — From  Miss  Anastasia  Pugsley,  to  Miss  Jemima 
Moggridge,  at  Gregory  House  Establishment  for  Young 
Ladies,  Mile  End. 

My  dear  Jemima, 

Deeply  solicitous  to  gratify  sensibility,  by  sympathizing  with 
our  fortuitous  elevation,  I  seize  the  epistolary  implements  to 
inform  you,  that,  by  the  testamentary  disposition  of  a  remote 
branch  of  consanguinity,  our  tutelary  residence  is  removed 
from  the  metropolitan  horizon  to  a  pastoral  district  and  its  con- 


JO 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


genial  pursuits.  In  futurity  I  shall  be  more  pertinaciously 
superstitious  in  the  astrological  revelations  of  human  destiny. 
You  remember  the  mysterious  gipsy  at  Hornsey  Wood? — Well, 
the  eventful  fortune  she  obscurely  intimated,  though  couched  in 
vague  terms,  has  come  to  pass  in  the  minutest  particulars  ; 
for  I  perceive  perspicuously,  that  it  predicted  that  papa  should 
sell  off  his  boot  and  shoe  business  at  133,  Barbican,  to  Clack 
&  Son,  of  144,  Hatton  Garden,  and  that  we  should  retire,  in  a 
station  of  affluence,  to  Middlefen  Hall,  in  Lincolnshire,  by  be- 
quest of  our  great-great  maternal  uncle,  Pollexfen  Goldsworthy 
Wrigglesworth,  Esq.,  who  deceased  suddenly  of  apoplexy  at 
Wisbeach  Market,  in  the  ninety-third  year  of  his  venerable  and 
lamented  age. 

At  the  risk  of  tedium,  I  will  attempt  a  cursory  delineation  of 
our  rural  paradise,  altho'  I  feel  it  would  be  morally  arduous,  to 
give  any  idea  of  the  romantic  scenery  of  the  Lincolnshire  Fens. 
Conceive,  as  far  as  the  visual  organ  expands,  an  immense  seques- 
tered level,  abundantly  irrigated  with  minute  rivulets,  and  stud- 
ded with  tufted  oaks,  whilst  more  than  a  hundred  wind-mills 
diversify  the  prospect  and  give  a  revolving  animation  to  the  scene. 
As  for  our  own  gardens  and  grounds  they  are  a  perfect  Vauxhall 
— excepting  of  course  the  rotunda,  the  orchestra,  the  company, 
the  variegated  lamps,  the  fire-works,  and  those  very  lofty  trees. 
But  I  trust  my  dear  Jemima  will  supersede  topography  by 
ocular  inspection  ;  and  in  the  interim  I  send  for  acceptance  a 
graphical  view  of  the  locality,  shaded  in  Indian  ink,  which  will 
suffice  to  convey  an  idea  of  the  terrestrial  verdure  and  celestial 
azure  we  enjoy,  in  lieu  of  the  sable  exhalations  and  architectural 
nigritude  of  the  metropolis. 

You  who  know  my  pastoral  aspirings,  and  have  been  the 
indulgent  confidant  of  my  votive  tributes  to  the  Muses,  will  con- 
ceive the  refined  nature  of  my  enjoyment  when  I  mention  the 
intellectual  repast  of  this  morning.  I  never  could  enjoy  Bloom- 
field  in  Barbican, — but  to-day  he  read  beautifully  under  our 
pear-tree.  I  look  forward  to  the  felicity  of  reading  Thomson's 
Summer  with  you  on  the  green  seat,  and  if  engagements  at  Christ- 
mas permit  your  participation  in  the  bard,  there  is  a  bower  of 
evergreens  that  will  be  delightful  for  the  perusal  of  his  Winter. 


THE  PUGSLEY  PAPERS. 


11 


I  enclose,  by  request,  an  epistolary  effusion  from  sister  Dorothy, 
which  I  know  will  provoke  your  risible  powers,  by  the  domes- 
ticity of  its  details.  You  know  she  was  always  in  the  homely 
characteristics  a  perfect  Cinderella,  though  I  doubt  whether  even 
supernatural  agency  could  adapt  her  foot  to  a  diminutive  vitri- 
fied slipper,  or  her  hand  for  a  prince  of  regal  primogeniture. 
But  I  am  summoned  tc  receive,  with  family  members,  the  felici- 
tations of  Lincolnshire  aristocracy  ;  though  whatever  necessary 
distinctions  may  prospectively  occur  between  respective  grades 
in  life,  they  will  only  superficially  affect  the  sentiments  of 
eternal  friendship  between  my  dear  Jemima  and  her  affectionate 
friend, 

Anastasia  Pugsley. 


No.  IV. — From  Miss  Dorothy  Pugsley  to  the  Same. 

My  dear  Miss  Jemima, 

Providence  having  been  pleased  to  remove  my  domestic  duties 
from  Barbican  to  Lincolnshire,  I  trust  that  I  shall  have  strength 
of  constitution  to  fulfil  them  as  becomes  my  new  allotted  line  of 
life.  As  we  are  not  sent  into  this  world  to  be  idle,  and  Anas- 
tasia has  declined  housewifery,  I  have  undertaken  the  Dairy, 
and  the  Brewery,  and  the  Baking,  and  the  Poultry,  the  Pigs  and 
the  Pastry, — and  though  I  feel  fatigued  at  first,  use  reconciles 
to  labors  and  trials,  more  severe  than  I  at  present  enjoy.  Altho' 
things  may  not  turn  out  to  wish  at  present,  yet  all  well-directed 
efforts  are  sure  to  meet  reward  in  the  end,  and  altho'  I  have 
chumped  and  churned  two  days  running,  and  it's  nothing  yet 
but  curds  and  whey,  I  should  be  wrong  to  despair  of  eating  but- 
ter of  my  own  making  before  I  die.  Considering  the  adultera- 
tion committed  by  every  article  in  London,  I  was  never  happier 
in  any  prospect,  than  of  drinking  my  own  milk,  fattening  my 
own  calves,  and  laying  my  own  eggs.  We  cackle  so  much  I 
am  sure  we  new-lay  somewhere,  tho'  I  cannot  find  out  our  nests  ] 
and  I  am  looking  ev3ry  day  to  have  chickens,  as  one  pepper-and- 
salt-colored  hen  has  been  sitting  these  two  months.    When  a 


12 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


poor  ignorant  bird  sets  me  such  an  example  of  patience,  how 
can  I  repine  at  the  hardest  domestic  drudgery  !  Mother  and  I 
have  worked  like  horses  to  be  sure,  ever  since  we  came  to  the 
estate  ;  but  if  we  die  in  it,  we  know  it's  for  the  good  of  the 
family,  and  to  agreeably  surprise  my  Father,  who  is  still  in  town 
winding  up  his  books.  For  my  own  part,  if  it  was  right  to  look 
at  things  so  selfishly,  I  should  say  I  never  was  so  happy  in  my 
life  ;  though  I  own  I  have  cried  more  since  coming  here  than  I 
ever  remember  before.  You  will  confess  my  crosses  and  losses 
have  been  unusual  trials,  when  I  tell  you,  out  of  all  my  makings, 
and  bakings,  and  brewings,  and  preservings,  there  has  been 
nothing  either  eatable  or  drinkable  ;  and  what  is  mo;e  painful 
to  an  affectionate  mind, — have  half  poisoned  the  whole  family 
with  home-made  ketchup  of  toadstools,  by  mistake  for  mush- 
rooms. When  I  reflect  that  they  are  preserved,  I  ought  not  to 
grieve  about  my  damsons  and  bullaces,  done  by  Mrs.  Maria 
Dover's  receipt. 

Among  other  things  we  came  into  a  beautiful  closet  of  old 
China,  which,  I  am  shocked  to  say,  is  all  destroyed  by  my  pre- 
serving. The  bullaces  and  damsons  fomented,  and  blew  up  a 
great  jar  with  a  violent  shock  that  smashed  all  the  tea  and  coffee 
cups,  and  left  nothing  but  the  handles  hanging  in  rows  on  the 
tenter-hooks.  But  to  a  resigned  spirit  there's  always  some  com- 
fort in  calamities,  and  if  the  preserves  work  and  foment  so,  there's 
some  hope  that  my  beer  will,  as  it  has  been  a  month  next  Mon- 
day in  the  mash  tub.  As  for  the  loss  of  the  elder  wine,  candor 
compels  me  to  say  it  was  my  own  fault  for  letting  the  poor  blind 
little  animals  crawl  into  the  copper  ;  but  experience  dictates  next 
year  not  to  boil  the  berries  and  kittens  at  the  same  time. 

I  mean  to  attempt  cream  cheese  as  soon  as  we  can  get  cream, — 
but  as  yet  we  can't  drive  the  Cows  home  to  be  milked  for  the 
Bull — he  has  twice  hunted  Grace  and  me  into  fits,  and  kept  my 
poor  Mother  a  whole  morning  in  the  pigstye.  As  I  know  you 
like  country  delicacies,  you  will  receive  a  pound  of  my  fresh 
butter  when  it  comes,  and  I  mean  to  add  a  cheese  as  soon  as  I 
can  get  one  to  stick  together.  I  shall  send  also  some  family 
pork  for  Governess,  of  our  own  killing,  as  we  wring  a  pig's  neck 
on  Saturday.    I  did  hope  to  give  you  the  unexpected  treat  of  a 


THE  PUGSLEY  PAPERS. 


13 


home-made  loaf,  but  it  was  forgot  in  the  oven  from  ten  to  six,  and 
so  too  black  to  offer.  However,  I  hope  to  surprise  you  with  one 
by  Monday's  carrier.  Anastasia  bids  me  add  she  will  send  a 
nosegay  for  respected  Mrs.  Tombleson,  if  the  plants  don't  die  off 
before,  which  I  am  sorry  to  say  is  not  improbable. 

It's  really  shocking  to  see  the  failure  of  her  cultivated  taste, 
and  one  in  particular,  that  must  be  owned  a  very  pretty  idea. 
When  we  came,  there  was  a  vast  number  of  flower  roots,  but 
jumbled  without  any  regular  order,  till  Anastasia  trowelled 
them  all  up,  and  set  them  in  again,  in  the  quadrille  figures.  It 
must  have  looked  sweetly  elegant,  if  it  had  agreed  with  them, 
but  they  have  all  dwindled  and  drooped  like  deep  declines  and 
consumptions.  Her  dahlias  and  tulips  too  have  turned  out 
nothing  but  onions  and  kidney  potatoes,  and  her  ten-week  stocks 
have  not  come  up  in  twenty.  But  as  Shakspeare  says,  Adver- 
sity is  a  precious  toad — that  teaches  us  Patience  is  a  jewel. 

Considering  the  unsettled  state  of  coming  in,  I  must  conclude, 
but  could  not  resist  giving  your  friendliness  a  short  account  of 
the  happy  change  that  has  occurred,  and  our  increase  of  com- 
forts. I  would  write  more,  but  I  know  you  will  excuse  my 
listening  to  the  calls  of  dumb  animals.  It's  the  time  I  always  scald 
the  little  pigs'  bread  and  milks,  and  put  saucers  of  clean  water 
for  the  ducks  and  geese.  There  are  the  fowls'  beds  to  make 
with  fresh  straw,  and  a  hundred  similar  things  that  country  peo- 
ple are  obliged  to  think  of. 

The  children,  I  am  happy  to  say,  are  all  well,  only  baby  is  a 
little  fractious,  we  think  from  Grace  setting  him  down  in  the  net- 
tles, and  he  was  short-coated  last  week.  Grace  is  poorly  with  a 
cold,  and  Anastasia  has  got  a  sore  throat,  from  sitting  up  fruit- 
lessly in  the  orchard  to  hear  the  nightingale  ;  perhaps  there  may 
not  be  any  in  the  Fens.  I  seem  to  have  a  trifling  ague  and 
rheumatism  myself,  but  it  may  be  only  a  stiffness  from  so  much 
churning,  and  the  great  family  wash-up  of  everything  we  had 
directly  we  came  down,  for  the  sake  of  grass  bleaching  on  the 
lawn.  With  these  exceptions,  we  are  all  in  perfect  health  and 
happ'ness,  and  unite  in  love,  with 

Dear  Miss  Jemima's  affectionate  friend, 

Dorothy  Pugslet. 


14 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


No.  V. — From  Mrs.  Pugsley  to  Mrs.  Mumford,  Bucklersbury. 

My  dear  Martha, 

In  my  ultimatum  I  informed  of  old  Wrigglesworth  paying  his 
natural  debts,  and  of  the  whole  Middlefen  estate  coming  from 
Lincolnshire  to  Barbican.  I  charged  Mr.  P.  to  send  bulletings 
into  you  with  progressive  reports,  but  between  sisters,  as  I  know 
you  are  very  curious,  I  am  going  to  make  myself  mere  particu- 
lar. I  take  the  opportunity  of  the  family  being  all  restive  in 
bed,  and  the  house  all  still,  to  give  an  account  of  our  moving. 
The  things  all  got  here  safe,  with  the  exception  of  the  Crockery 
and  Glass,  which  came  down  with  the  dresser,  about  an  hour 
after  its  arrival.  Perhaps  if  we  hadn't  overloaded  it  with  the 
whole  of  our  breakables,  it  wouldn't  have  given  way, — as  it  is, 
we  have  only  one  plate  left,  and  that's  chipt,  and  a  mug  without 
a  spout  to  keep  }t  in  countenance.  Our  furniture,  &c,  came  by 
the  wagon,  and  I  am  sorry  to  say  a  poor  family  at  the  same  time, 
and  the  little  idle  boys  with  their  knives  have  carved  and  scari- 
fied my  rosewood  legs,  and,  what  is  worse,  not  of  the  same  pat- 
terns :  but  as  people  say,  two  Lincolnshire  removes  are  as  bad 
as  a  fire  of  London. 

The  first  thing  I  did  on  coming  down,  was  to  see  to  the  sweeps 
going  up, — but  I  wish  I  had  been  less  precipitous,  for  the  sooty 
wretches  stole  four  good  flitches  of  bacon,  as  was  up  the  kitchen 
chimbly,  quite  unbeknown  to  me.  We  have  filled  up  the  vacan- 
cy with  more,  which  smoke  us  dreadfully,  but  what  is  to  be  cured 
must  be  endured.  My  next  thing  was  to  have  all  holes  and 
corners  cleared  out,  and  washed,  and  scrubbed,  being  left,  like 
bachelor's  places,  in  a  sad  state  by  old  single  W. ;  for  a  rich 
man,  I  never  saw  one  that  wanted  so  much  cleaning  out.  There 
were  heaps  of  dung  about,  as  high  as  haystacks,  and  it  cost 
me  five  shillings  a  load  to  have  it  all  carted  ofT  the  premises  ; 
besides  heaps  of  good-for-nothing  littering  straw,  that  I  gave  to 
the  boys  for  bonfires.  We  are  not  all  to  rights  yet,  but  Rome 
wasn't  built  in  St.  Thomas's  day. 

It  was  providential  I  hampered  myself  with  cold  provisions, 
for  except  the  bacon  there  were  no  eatables  in  the  house.  What 
old  W.  lived  upon  is  a  mystery,  except  salads,  for  we  found  a 


THE  PUGSLEY  PAPERS. 


15 


whole  field  of  beet-root,  which,  all  but  a  few  plants  for  Dorothy 
to  pickle,  I  had  chucked  away.  As  the  ground  was  then  clear 
for  sowing  up  a  crop,  I  directed  George  to  plough  it  up,  but  he 
met  with  agricultural  distress.  He  says  as  soon  as  he  whipped 
his  horses,  the  plough  stuck  its  nose  in  the  earth,  and  tumbled  over 
head  and  heels.  It  seems  very  odd  when  ploughing  is  so  easy 
to  look  at,  but  I  trust  he  will  do  better  in  time.  Experience 
makes  a  King  Solomon  of  a  Tom-noddy. 

I  expect  we  shall  have  bushels  upon  bushels  of  corn,  tho' 
sadly  pecked  by  the  birds,  as  I  have  had  all  the  scarecrows  taken 
down  for  fear  of  the  children  dreaming  of  them  for  Bogies.  For 
the  same  dear  little  sakes  I  have  had  the  well  filled  up,  and  the 
nasty  sharp  iron  spikes  drawn  out  of  all  the  rakes  and  harrows. 
Nobody  shall  say  to  my  teeth,  I  am  not  a  good  Mother.  With 
these  precautions  I  trust  the  young  ones  will  enjoy  the  country 
when  the  gipsies  have  left,  but  till  then,  I  confine  them  to  round 
the  house,  as  it's  no  use  shutting  the  stable  door  after  you've  had 
a  child  stole. 

We  have  a  good  many  fine  fields  of  hay,  which  I  mean  to  have 
reaped  directly,  wet  or  shine ;  for  delays,  are  as  dangerous  as 
pickles  in  glazed  pans.  Perhaps  St.  Swithin's  is  in  our  favor, 
for  if  the  stacks  are  put  up  dampish  they  won't  catch  fire  so 
easily,  if  Swing  should  come  into  these  parts.  The  poor  boys 
have  made  themselves  very  industrious  in  shooting  off  the  birds, 
and  hunting  away  all  the  vermin,  besides  cutting  down  trees. 
As  I  knew  it  was  profitable  to  fell  timber,  I  directed  them  to 
begin  with  a  very  ugly  straggling  old  hollow  tree  next  the  pre- 
mises, but  it  fell  the  wrong  way,  and  knocked  down  the  cow- 
house. Luckily  the  poor  animals  were  all  in  the  clover-field  at 
the  time.  George  says  it  wouldn't  have  happened  but  for  a  vio- 
lent  sow,  or  rather  sow- west, — and  it's  likely  enough,  but  it's  an 
ill  wind  that  blows  nothing  to  nobody. 

Having  writ  last  post  to  Mr.  P.,  I  have  no  occasion  to  make 
you  a  country  commissioner.  Anastasia,  indeed,  wants  to  have 
books  about  everything,  but  for  my  part  and  Dorothy's  we  don't 
put  much  faith  in  authorized  receipts  and  directions,  but  trust 
more  to  nature  and  common  sense.  For  instance,  in  fatting  a 
goose,  reason  points  to  sage  and  oniorjs, — why  our  own  don't 


16 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


thrive  on  it,  is  very  mysterious.  We  have  a  beautiful  poultry 
yard,  only  infested  with  rats, — but  I  have  made  up  a  poison,  that 
I  know  by  the  poor  ducks,  will  kill  them  if  they  eat  it. 

I  expected  to  send  you  a  quantity  of  wall-fruit,  for  preserving, 
and  am  sorry  you  bought  the  brandy  beforehand,  as  it  has  all 
vanished  in  one  night  by  picking  and  stealing,  notwithstanding  I 
had  ten  dozen  of  bottles  broke  on  purpose  to  stick  a  top  of  the 
wall.  But  I  rather  think  they  came  over  the  pales,  as  George, 
who  is  very  thoughtless,  had  driven  in  all  the  new  tenter-hooks 
with  the  points  downwards.  Our  apples  and  pears  would  have 
gone  too,  but  luckily  we  heard  a  noise  in  the  dark,  and  threw 
brickbats  out  of  window,  that  alarmed  the  thieves  by  smashing 
the  covvcumber  frames.  However,  I  mean  on  Monday  to  make 
sure  of  the  orchard,  by  gathering  the  trees, — a  pheasant  in  one's 
hand  is  worth  two  cock-sparrows  in  a  bush.  One  comfort  is,  the 
house-dog  is  very  vicious,  and  won't  let  any  of  us  stir  in  or  out 
after  dark — indeed,  nothing  can  be  more  furious,  except  the  bull, 
and  at  me  in  particular.  You  would  think  he  knew  my  inward 
thoughts,  and  that  I  intend  to  have  him  roasted  whole  when  we 
give  our  grand  house-warming  regalia. 

With  these  particulars,  I  remain,  with  love,  my  dear  Dorcas, 
your  affectionate  sister, 

Belinda  Pugsley. 

P.  S. — I  have  only  one  anxiety  here,  and  that  is,  the  likelihood 
of  being  taken  violently  ill,  nine  miles  off  from  any  physical 
powers,  with  nobody  that  can  ride  in  the  house,  and  nothing  but  an 
insurmountable  hunting  horse  in  the  stable.  I  should  like,  there- 
fore, to  be  well  doctor-stuff'd  from  Apothecaries'  Hall,  by  the 
wagon  or  any  other  vehicle.  A  stitch  in  the  side  taken  in  time 
saves  nine  spasms.  Dorothy's  tincture  of  the  rhubarb  stalks  in 
the  garden  doesn't  answer,  and  it's  a  pity  now  they  weie  not 
saved  for  pies. 


THE  PUGSLEY  PAPERS. 


No.  VI. — From  Mrs.  Pugsley  to  Mrs.  Rogers. 
Madam, 

Although  warmth  has  made  a  coolness,  and  our  having  words 
has  caused  a  silence — yet  as  mere  writing  is  not  being  on  speak- 
ing terms,  and  disconsolate  parents  in  the  case  ;  I  waive  venting 
of  animosities  till  a  more  agreeable  moment.  Having  perused 
the  afflicted  advertisement  in  the  Times,  with  interesting  descrip- 
tion of  person,  and  ineffectual  dragging  of  New  River, — beg 
leave  to  say  that  Master  Robert  is  safe  and  well, — having  arrived 
here  on  Saturday  night  last,  with  almost  not  a  shoe  to  his  foot, 
and  no  coat  at  all,  as  was  supposed  to  be  with  the  approbation  of 
parents.  It  appears,  that  not  supposing  the  distance  between  the 
families  extended  to  him,  he  walked  the  whole  way  down  on  the 
footing  of  a  friend,  to  visit  my  son  Richard,  but  hearing  the  news- 
papers read,  quitted  suddenly,  the  same  day  with  the  gipsies,  and 
we  haven't  an  idea  what  is  become  of  him.  Trusting  this  state- 
ment will  relieve  of  all  anxiety,  remain,  Madam,  your  humble 
servant,  Belinda  Pugsley. 


No.  VII. — To  Mr.  Silas  Pugsley,  Parisian  Depot,  Shoreditch. 

Dear  Brother, 

My  favor  of  the  present  date  is  to  advise  of  my  safe  arrival 
on  Wednesday  night,  per  opposition  coach,  after  ninety  miles  of 
discomfort,  absolutely  unrivalled  for  cheapness,  and  a  walk  of  five 
miles  more,  through  lanes  and  roads,  that  for  dirt  and  sludge  may 
confidently  defy  competition,  not  to  mention  turnings  and  wind- 
ings, too  numerous  to  particularise,  but  morally  impossible  to 
pursue  on  undeviating  principles.  The  night  was  of  so  dark  a 
quality  as  forbade  finding  the  gate,  but  for  the  house-dog  flying 
upon  me  by  mistake  for  the  late  respectable  proprietor,  and  almost 
tearing  my  clothes  off  my  back  by  his  strenuous  exertions  to 
obtain  the  favor  of  my  patronage. 

Conscientiously  averse  to  the  fallacious  statements,  so  much 
indulged  in  by  various  competitors,  truth  urges  to  acknowledge 
that  on  arrival,  I  did  not  find  things  on  such  a  footing  as  to  ensure 
3 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


universal  satisfaction.  Mrs.  P.,  indeed,  differs  in  her  statement, 
but  you  know  her  success  always  surpassed  the  most  sanguine 
expectations.  Ever  emulous  to  merit  commendation  by  the  strict- 
est regard  to  principles  of  economy,  I  found  her  laid  up  with  lum- 
bago, through  her  studious  efforts  to  please,  and  Doctor  Clarke  of 
Wisbeach  in  the  house  prescribing  for  it,  but  I  am  sorry  to  add — 
no  abatement.  Dorothy  is  also  confined  to  her  bed,  by  her  unre- 
mitting assiduity  and  attention  in  the  house-keeping  line,  and 
Anastasia  the  same,  from  listening  for  nightingales,  on  a  fine  July 
evening,  but  which  is  an  article  not  always  to  be  warranted  to 
keep  its  virtue  in  any  climate, — the  other  children,  large  and 
small  sizes,  ditto,  ditto,  with  Grace  too  ill  to  serve  in  the  nurse- 
ry,— and  the  rest  of  the  servants  totally  unable  to  execute  such 
extensive  demands.  Such  an  unprecedented  depreciation  in 
health  makes  me  doubt  the  quality  of  country  air,  so  much 
recommended  for  family  use,  and  whether  constitutions  have  not 
more  eligibility  to  offer  that  have  been  regularly  town-made. 

Our  new  residence  is  a  large  lonely  Mansion,  with  no  connex- 
ion with  any  other  House,  but  standing  in  the  heart  of  Lincoln- 
shire fens,  over  which  it  looks  through  an  advantageous  opening  : 
comprising  a  great  variety  of  windmills,  and  drains,  and  willow- 
pollards,  and  an  extensive  assortment  of  similar  articles,  that  are 
not  much  calculated  to  invite  inspection.  In  warehouses  for  corn, 
&c,  it  probably  presents  unusual  advantages  to  the  occupier,  but 
candor  compels  to  sta*fe  that  agriculture  in  this  part  of  Lincoln- 
shire is  very  flat.  To  supply  language  on  the  most  moderate 
terms,  unexampled  distress  in  Spitalfields  is  nothing  to  the  dis- 
tress in  ours.  The  corn  has  been  deluged  with  rain  of  remarka- 
ble durability,  without  being  able  to  wash  the  smut  out  of  its  ears  ; 
and  with  regard  to  the  expected  great  rise  in  hay,  our  stacks 
have  been  burnt  down  to  the  ground,  instead  of  going  to  the  con- 
sumer. If  the  hounds  hadn't  been  out,  we  might  have  fetch'd 
the  engines,  but  the  hunter  threw  George  on  his  head,  and  he  only 
revived  to  be  sensible  that  the  entire  stock  had  been  disposed  of 
at  an  immense  sacrifice.  The  whole  amount  I  fear  will  be  out 
of  book, — as  the  Norwich  Union  refuses  to  liquidate  the  hay,  on 
the  ground  that  the  policy  was  voided  by  the  impolicy  of  putting 
it  up  wet.    In  other  articles  I  am  sorry  I  must  write  no  altera- 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


19 


tion.  Our  bull,  after  killing  the  house-dog,  and  tossing  William, 
has  gone  wild  and  had  the  madness  to  run  away  from  his  liveli- 
hood, and,  what  is  worse,  all  the  cows  after  him — except  those 
that  had  burst  themselves  in  the  clover  field,  and  a  small  divi- 
dend, as  I  may  say.  of  one  in  the  pound.  Another  item,  the  pigs, 
to  save  bread  and  milk,  have  been  turned  into  the  woods  for 
acorns,  and  is  an  article  producing  no  returns — as  not  one  has 
yet  come  back.  Poultry  ditto.  Sedulously  cultivating  an  enlarged 
connexion  in  the  Turkey  line,  such  the  antipathy  to  gypsies,  the 
whole  breed,  geese  and  ducks  inclusive,  removed  themselves 
from  the  premises  by  night,  directly  a  strolling  camp  came  and 
set  up  in  the  neighborhood.  To  avoid  prolixity,  when  I  came  to 
take  stock,  there  was  no  stock  to  take — namely,  no  eggs,  no 
butter,  no  cheese,  no  corn,  no  hay,  no  bread,  no  beer — no  water 
even — nothing  but  the  mere  commodious  premises,  and  fixtures, 
and  good  will — and  candor  compels  to  add,  a  very  small  quantity 
on  hand  of  the  last-named  particular. 

To  add  to  stagnation,  neither  of  my  two  sons  in  the  business 
nor  the  two  apprentices  have  been  so  diligently  punctual  in  exe- 
cuting country  orders  with  despatch  and  fidelity,  as  laudable 
ambition  desires,  but  have  gone  about  fishing  and  shooting — and 
William  has  suffered  a  loss  of  three  fingers,  by  his  unvarying 
system  of  high  charges.  He  and  Richard  are  likewise  both 
threatened  with  prosecution  for  trespassing  on  the  Hares  in  the 
adjoining  landed  interest,  and  Nick  is  obliged  to  decline  any 
active  share,  by  dislocating  his  shoulder  in  climbing  a  tall  tree 
for  a  tom-tit.  As  for  George,  tho'  for  the  first  time  beyond  the 
circumscribed  limits  of  town  custom,  he  indulges  vanity  in  such 
unqualified  pretensions  to  superiority  of  knowledge  in  farming, 
on  the  strength  of  his  grandfather  having  belonged  to  the  agricul- 
tural line  of  trade,  as  renders  a  wholesale  stock  of  patience  barely 
adequate  to  meet  its  demands.  Thus  stimulated  to  injudicious 
performance  he  is  as  injurious  to  the  best  interests  of  the  country, 
as  blight  and  mildew,  and  smut  and  rot,  and  glanders,  and  pip, 
all  combined  in  one  texture.  Between  ourselves,  the  objects  of 
unceasing  endeavors,  united  with  uncompromising  integrity,  have 
been  assailed  with  so  much  deterioration,  as  makes  me  humbly 
desirous  of  abridging  sufferings,  by  resuming  business  as  a  Shoe 


20 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Marter  at  the  old  established  House.  If  Clack  &  Son,  therefore, 
have  not  already  taken  possession  and  respectfully  informed  the 
vicinity,  will  thankfully  pay  reasonable  compensation  for  loss  of 
time  and  expense  incurred  by  the  bargain  being  off.  In  case 
parties  agree,  I  beg  you  will  authorize  Mr.  Robins  to  have  the 
honor  to  dispose  of  the  whole  Lincolnshire  concern,  tho'  the 
knocking  down  of  Middlefen  Hall  will  be  a  severe  blow  on  Mrs. 
P.  and  Family.  Deprecating  the  deceitful  stimulus  of  advertis- 
ing arts,  interest  commands  to  mention, — desirable  freehold 
estate  and  eligible  investment — and  sole  reason  for  disposal,  the 
proprietor  going  to  the  continent.  Example  suggests  likewise,  a 
good  country  for  hunting  for  fox-hounds — and  a  prospect  too 
extensive  to  put  in  a  newspaper.  Circumstances  being  rendered 
awkward  by  the  untoward  event  of  the  running  away  of  the 
cattle,  dec,  it  will  be  best  to  say — "  The  Stock  to  be  taken  as  it 
stands  ;" — and  an  additional  favor  will  be  politely  conferred,  and 
the  same  thankfully  acknowledged,  if  the  auctioneer  will  be  so 
kind  as  bring  the  next  market  town  ten  miles  nearer,  and  carry 
the  coach  and  the  wagon  once  a  day  past  the  door.  Earnestly 
requesting  early  attention  to  the  above,  and  with  sentiments  of, 

R.  Pugsley,  Sen. 

P.  S.  Richard  is  just  come  to  hand  dripping  and  half  dead  out 
of  the  Nene,  and  the  two  apprentices  all  but  drowned  each  other 
in  saving  him.  Hence  occurs  to  add,  fishing  opportunities  among 
the  desirable  items. 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM. 


21 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM.* 


'Twas  in  the  prime  of  summer  time, 

An  evening  calm  and  cool, 
When  four-and-twenty  happy  boys 

Came  bounding  out  of  school  ; 
There  were  some  that  ran,  and  some  that  leapt, 

Like  troutlets  in  a  pool. 

Away  they  sped,  with  gamesome  minds 

And  souls  untouch'd  by  sin  ; 
To  a  level  mead  they  came,  and  there 

They  drave  the  wickets  in : 
Pleasantly  shone  the  setting  sun 

Over  the  town  of  Lynn. 

Like  sportive  deer  they  coursed  about, 

And  shouted  as  they  ran- — 
Turning  to  mirth  all  things  of  earth, 

As  only  boyhood  can  : 
But  the  usher  sat  remote  from  all, 

A  melancholy  man  ! 

*  The  late  Admiral  Burney  went  to  school  at  an  establishment  where  the 
unhappy  Eugene  Aram  was  usher,  subsequent  to  his  crime.  The  Admiral 
stated  that  Aram  was  generally  liked  by  the  boys ;  and  that  he  used  to  dis- 
course to  them  about  murder,  in  somewhat  of  the  spirit  which  is  attributed 
to  him  in  this  poem. 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


His  hat  was  off,  his  vest  apart, 

To  catch  Heaven's  blessed  breeze  ; 

For  a  burning  thought  was  on  his  brow, 
And  his  bosom  ill  at  ease : 

So  he  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  read 
The  book  between  his  knees. 

Leaf  after  leaf  he  turn'd  it  o'er, 

Nor  ever  glanced  aside  ; 
For  the  peace  of  his  soul  he  read  that  book, 

In  the  golden  eventide  : 
Much  study  had  made  him  very  lean 

And  pale  and  leaden-eyed. 

At  last  he  shut  the  ponderous  tome; 

With  a  fast  and  fervid  grasp — 
He  strained  the  dusky  covers  close, 

And  fixed  the  brazen  hasp ; 
"  O  God  !  could  I  so  close  my  mind, 

And  clasp  it  with  a  clasp." 

Then  leaping  on  his  feet  upright, 

Some  moody  turns  he  took — 
Now  up  the  mead,  then  down  the  mead, 

And  past  a  shady  nook — 
And,  lo  !  he  saw  a  little  boy 

That  pored  upon  a  book. 

"  My  gentle  lad,  what  is 't  you  read — 

Romance,  or  fairy  fable  ! 
Or  is  it  some  historic  page, 

Of  kings  and  crowns  unstable  ?" 
The  young  boy  gave  an  upward  glance — 

"  It  is  the  Death  of  Abel." 

The  usher  took  six  hasty  strides, 

As  smit  with  sudden  pain — 
Six  hasty  strides  beyond  the  place, 


THE  DREAM  OE  EUGENE  ARAM. 


Then  slowly  back  again  ; 
And  down  he  sat  beside  the  lad, 
And  talked  with  him  of  Cain.  * 

And  long  since  then,  of  bloody  men, 

Whose  deeds  tradition  saves; 
Of*  lonely  folk,  cut  off  unseen, 

And  hid  in  sudden  graves ; 
Of  horrid  stabs  in  groves  forlorn, 

And  murders  done  in  caves  ! 

And  how  the  sprites  of  injured  men 

Shriek  upward  from  the  sod — 
And  how  the  ghostly  hand  will  point 

To  show  the  burial  clod  ; 
And  unknown  facts  of  guilty  acts 

Are  seen  in  dreams  from  God  ! 

He  told  how  murderers  walked  the  earth 

Beneath  the  curse  of  Cain — 
With  crimson  clouds  before  their  eyes, 

And  flames  about  their  brain  ; 
For  blood  had  left  upon  their  souls 

Its  everlasting  stain ! 

"  And  well,"  quoth  he,  "  I  know,  for  truth, 
Their  pangs  must  be  extreme — 

Wo,  wo,  unutterable  wo — 

Who  spill  life's  sacred  stream  ! 

For  why  ?    Methought,  last  night,  I  wrought 
A  murder  in  a  dream ! 

"  One  that  had  never  done  me  wrong — 

A  feeble  man  and  old ; 
I  led  him  to  a  lonely  field, 

The  moon  shone  clear  and  cold ; 
Now  here,  said  I,  this  man  shall  die, 

And  I  will  have  his  gold  ! 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


"  Two  sudden  blows  with  a  ragged  stick. 
And  one  with  a  heavy  stone, 

One  horrid  gash  with  a  hasty  knife — 
And  then  the  deed  was  done  ; 

There  was  nothing  lying  at  my  feet, 
But  lifeless  flesh  and  bone ! 

"  Nothing  but  lifeless  flesh  and  bone, 

That  could  not  do  me  ill ; 
And  yet  I  feared  him  all  the  more, 

For  lying  there  so  still ; 
There  was  a  manhood  in  his  look, 

That  murder  could  not  kill ! 

"  And  lo  !  the  universal  air 

Seemed  lit  with  ghastly  flame — 

Ten  thousand  thousand  dreadful  eyes 
Were  looking  down  in  blame  ; 

I  took  the  dead  man  by  the  hand, 
And  called  upon  his  name  ! 

"  Oh  God  !  it  made  me  quake  to  see 
Such  sense  within  the  slain  ! 

But  when  I  touched  the  lifeless  clay, 
The  blood  gushed  out  amain ! 

For  every  clot,  a  burning  spot 
Was  scorching  in  my  brain  ! 

My  head  was  like  an  ardent  coal, 

My  heart  was  solid  ice  ; 
My  wretched,  wretched  soul,  I  knew. 

Was  at  the  Devil's  price  ; 
A  dozen  times  I  groan'd  ;  the  dead 

Had  never  groan'd  but  twice  ! 

"  And  now  from  forth  the  frowning  sky. 

From  the  heaven's  topmost  height 
I  heard  a  voice — the  awful  voice 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM. 


Of  the  blood-avenging  sprite  ; 
*  Thou  guilty  man  !  take  up  thy  dead, 
And  hide  it  from  my  sight !' 

"  I  took  the  dreary  body  up, 

And  cast  it  in  a  stream — 
A  sluggish  water,  black  as  ink, 

The  death  was  so  extreme 
(My  gentle  boy,  remember  this 

Was  nothing  but  a  dream). 

"  Down  went  the  corse  with  a  hollow  plunge 

And  vanish'd  in  a  pool ; 
Anon  I  cleaned  my  bloody  hands, 

And  wash'd  my  forehead  cool, 
And  sat  among  the  urchins  young 

That  evening  in  the  school. 

"  Oh  heaven  !  to  think  of  their  white  souls, 

And  mine  so  black  and  grim  ! 
I  could  not  share  in  childish  prayer, 

Nor  join  in  evening  hymn  ; 
Like  a  devil  of  the  pit  I  seem'd 

'Mid  holy  cherubim. 

"  And  peace  went  with  them  one  and  all, 

And  each  calm  pillow  spread  ; 
But  Guilt  was  my  grim  chamberlain 

That  lighted  me  to  bed, 
And  drew  my  midnight  curtains  round, 

With  fingers  bloody  red  ! 

"  All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 

From  weary  chime  to  chime, 
With  one  besetting  horrid  hint, 

That  racked  me  all  the  time, 
A  mighty  yearning,  like  the  first, 

Pierce  impulse  unto  crime ! 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


"  One  stern,  tyrannic  thought,  that  made 

All  other  thoughts  its  slave  ; 
Stronger  and  stronger  every  pulse 

Did  that  temptation  crave — 
Still  urging  me  to  go  and  see 

The  dead  man  in  his  grave  ! 

Heavily  I  rose  up — as  soon 

As  light  was  in  the  sky — 
And  sought  the  black,  accursed  pool, 

With  a  wild  misgiving  eye, 
And  I  saw  the  dead  in  the  river  bed, 

For  the  faithless  stream  was  dry  ! 

"  Merrily  rose  the  lark,  and  shook 
The  dew-drop  from  its  wing ; 

But  I  never  marked  its  morning  flight, 
I  never  heard  it  sing  : 

For  I  was  stooping  once  again 
Under  the  horrid  thing. 

e<  With  breathless  speed,  like  a  soul  in  chi 

I  took  him  up  and  ran — 
There  was  no  time  to  dig  a  grave 

Before  the  day  began ! 
In  a  lonesome  wood  with  heaps  of  leaves, 

I  hid  the  murdered  man ! 

"  And  all  that  day  I  read  in  school, 
But  my  thought  was  otherwhere  ; 

As  soon  as  the  mid-day  task  was  done, 
In  secret  I  was  there : 

And  a  mighty  wind  had  swept  the  leaves, 
And  still  the  corse  was  bare  ! 

"  Then  down  I  cast  me  on  my  face, 

And  first  began  to  weep, 
For  I  knew  my  secret  then  was  one 


THE  DREAM  OP  EUGENE  ARAM. 

That  Earth  refused  to  keep ; 
Or  land  or  sea,  though  he  should  be 
Ten  thousand  fathoms  deep  ! 

c  So  wills  the  fierce  avenging  sprite 

Till  blood  for  blood  atones ! 
Ay,  though  he  7s  buried  in  a  cave, 

And  trodden  down  with  stones, 
And  years  have  rotted  off  his  flesh — 
The  world  shall  see  his  bones ! 

"  Oh  God,  that  horrid,  horrid  dream 

Besets  me  now  awake  ! 
Again — again,  with  a  dizzy  brain, 

The  human  life  I  take ; 
And  my  red  right  hand  grows  raging  hot,* 

Like  Craniner's  at  the  stake. 

"  And  still  no  peace  for  the  restless  clay 

Will  wave  or  mould  allow ; 
The  horrid  thing  that  pursues  my  soul — 

It  stands  before  me  now  !" 
The  fearful  boy  looked  up  and  saw 

Huge  drops  upon  his  brow ! 

That  very  night,  while  gentle  sleep 

The  urchin's  eyelids  kissed, 
Two  stern-faced  men  set  out  from  Lynn, 

Through  the  cold  and  heavy  mist ; 
And  Eugene  Aram  walked  between, 

With  gyves  upon  his  wrist. 


28 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


BLACK,  WHITE,  AND  BROWN. 


All  at  once  Miss  Morbid  left  off  sugar. 

She  did  not  resign  it  as  some  persons  lay  down  their  carriage, 
the  full-bodied  family  coach  dwindling  into  a  chariot,  next  into 
a  fly,  and  then  into  a  sedan-chair.  She  did  not  shade  it  off 
artistically,  like  certain  household  economists,  from  white  to 
whitey  brown,  brown,  dark-brown,  and  so  on,  to  none  at  all. 
She  left  it  off,  as  one  might  leave  off  walking  on  the  top  of  a 
house,  or  on  a  slide,  or  on  a  plank  with  a  further  end  to  it,  that 
is  to  say,  slapdash,  all  at  once,  without  a  moment's  warning. 
She  gave  it  up,  to  speak  appropriately,  in  the  lump.  She  dropped 
it, — as  Corporal  Trim  let  fall  his  hat, — dab.  It  vanished,  as  the 
French  say,  toot  sweet.  From  the  30th  of  November,  1830,  not 
an  ounce  of  sugar,  to  use  Miss  Morbid's  own  expression,'  ever 
"  darkened  her  doors." 

The  truth  was  she  had  been  present  the  day  before  at  an  Anti- 
Slavery  Meeting  ;  and  had  listened  to  a  lecturing  Abolitionist, 
who  had  drawn  her  sweet  tooth,  root  and  branch,  out  of  her  head. 
Thenceforth  sugar,  or  as  she  called  it  "  snugger,"  was  no  longer 
white,  or  brown,  in  her  eyes,  but  red,  blood-red — an  abomination, 
to  indulge  in  which  would  convert  a  professing  Christian  into  a 
practical  Cannibal.  Accordingly,  she  made  a  vow,  under  the 
influence  of  moist  eyes  and  refined  feelings,  that  the  sanguinary 
article  should  never  more  enter  her  lips  or  her  house  ;  and  this 
pretty  parody  of  the  famous  Berlin  decree  against  our  Colonial 
produce  was  rigidly  enforced.  However  others  might  counte- 
nance the  practice  of  the  Slave  Owners  by  consuming  "shugger," 
she  was  resolved  for  her  own  part,  that  "  no  suffering  sable  son 
of  Africa  should  ever  rise  up  against  her  out  of  a  cup  of  Tea  V* 

In  the  mean  time,  the  cook  and  house-maid  grumbled  in  concert 


BLACK,  WHITE,  AND  BROWN. 


29 


at  the  prohibition :  they  naturally  thought  it  very  hard  to  be 
deprived  of  a  luxury  which  they  enjoyed  at  their  own  proper 
cost ;  and  at  last  only  consented  to  remain  in  the  service,  on 
condition  that  the  privation  should  be  handsomely  considered  in 
their  wages.  With  a  hope  of  being  similarly  remembered  in 
her  will,  the  poor  relations  of  Miss  Morbid  continued  to  drink 
the  "  warm  without,"  which  she  administered  to  them  every 
Sunday,  under  the  name  of  Tea  :  and  Hogarth  would  have 
desired  no  better  subject  for  a  picture  than  was  presented  by 
their  physiognomies.  Some  pursed  up  their  lips,  as  if  resolved 
that  the  nauseous  beverage  should  never  enter  them  ;  others 
compressed  their  mouths,  as  if  to  prevent  it  from  rushing  out 
again.  One  took  it  mincingly,  in  sips, — another  gulped  it  down 
in  desperation, — a  third,  in  a  fit  of  absence,  continued  to  stir 
very  superfluously  with  his  spoon ;  and  there  was  one  shrewd 
old  gentleman,  who,  by  a  little  dexterous  by-play,  used  to  bestow 
the  favor  of  his  small  souchong  on  a  sick  geranium.  Now  and 
then  an  astonished  Stranger  would  retain  a  half  cupful  of  the 
black  dose  in  his  mouth,  and  stare  round  at  his  fellow  guests,  as 
if  tacitly  putting  to  them  the  very  question  of  Matthews's  York- 
shireman,  in  the  mail-coach — "  Coompany  ! — oop  or  doon  ?" 

The  greatest  sufferers,  however,  were  Miss  Morbid's  two 
nephews,  still  in  the  morning  of  their  youth,  and  boy-like,  far 
more  inclined  to  "  sip  the  sweets  "  than  to  "  hail  the  dawn." 
They  had  formerly  looked  on  their  Aunt's  house  as  peculiarly  a 
Dulce  Domum.  Prior  to  her  sudden  conversion,  she  had  been 
famous  for  the  manufacture  of  a  sort  of  hard  bake,  commonly 
called  Toffy  or  Taffy, — but  now,  alas !  "  Taffy  was  not  at 
home,"  and  there  was  nothing  else  to  invite  a  call.  Currant* 
tart  is  tart  indeed  without  sugar ;  and  as  for  the  green  goose- 
berries, they  always  tasted,  as  the  young  gentlemen  affirmed, 
"  like  a  quart  of  berries  sharpened  to  a  pint."  In  short,  it 
always  required  six  pennyworth  of  lollipops  and  bulls'-eyes,  a 
lick  of  honey,  a  dip  of  treacle,  and  a  pick  at  a  grocer's  hogs- 
head, to  sweeten  a  visit  at  Aunt  Morbid's. 

To  tell  the  truth,  her  own  temper  soured  a  little  under  the 
prohibition.  She  could  not  persuade  the  Sugar-eaters  that  they 
were  Vampyres ; — instead  of  practising,  or  even  admiring  her 


30 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


self-denial,  they  laughed  at  it ;  and  one  wicked  wag  even  com- 
pared  her,  in  allusion  to  her  acerbity  and  her  privation,  to  a 
crab,  without  the  nippers.  She  persevered  notwithstanding  in 
her  system  ;  and  to  the  constancy  of  a  martyr  added  something 
of  the  wilfulness  of  a  bigot : — indeed,  it  was  hinted  by  patrons 
and  patronesses  of  white  charities,  that  European  objects  had 
not  their  fair  share  in  her  benevolence.  She  was  pre-eminently 
the  friend  of  the  blacks.  Howbeit,  for  all  her  sacrifices,  not  a 
lash  was  averted  from  their  sable  backs.  She  had  raised  dis- 
content in  the  kitchen,  she  had  disgusted  her  acquaintance,  sick- 
ened  her  friends,  and  given  her  own  dear  little  nephews  the 
stomach-ache,  without  saving  Quashy  from  one  cut  of  the  driver's 
whip,  or  diverting  a  single  kick  from  the  shins  of  Sambo.  Her 
grocer  complained  loudly  of  being  called  a  dealer  in  human 
gore,  yet  not  one  hogshead  the  less  was  imported  from  the  Plant- 
ations. By  an  error  common  to  all  her  class  she  mistook  a 
negative  for  a  positive  principle ;  and  persuaded  herself  that  by 
not  preserving  damsons,  she  preserved  the  Niggers  ;  that  by  not 
sweetening  her  own  cup,  she  was  dulcifying  the  lot  of  all  her  sable 
brethren  in  bondage.  She  persevered  accordingly  in  setting  her 
face  against  sugar  instead  of  slavery ;  against  the  plant,  instead 
of  the  planter ;  and  had  actually  abstained  for  six  months  from 
the  forbidden  article,  when  a  circumstance  occurred  that  roused 
her  sympathies  into  more  active  exertions.  It  pleased  an  Amer- 
ican lady  to  import  with  her  a  black  female  servant,  whom  she 
rather  abruptly  dismissed,  on  her  arrival  in  England.  The  case 
was  considered  by  the  Hampshire  Telegraph  of  that  day,  as  one 
of  great  hardship  ;  the  paragraph  went  the  round  of  the  papers 
— and  in  due  time  attracted  the  notice  of  Miss  Morbid.  It  was 
precisely  addressed  to  her  sensibilities,  and  there  was  a  "  Try 
Warren  "  tone  about  it,  that  proved  irresistible.  She  read — and 
wrote, — and  in  the  course  of  one  little  week,  her  domestic  es- 
tablishment was  maliciously  but  truly  described  as  consisting  of 
"  two  white  Slaves  and  a  black  Companion."" 

The  adopted  protegee  was,  in  reality,  a  strapping  clumsy 
Negress,  as  ugly  as  sin,  and  with  no  other  merit  than  that  of 
being  of  the  same  color  as  the  crow.  She  was  artful,  sullen, 
gluttonous,  and,  above  all,  so  intolerably  indolent,  that  if  she 


BLACK,  WHITE,  AND  BROWN.  31 

had  been  literally  "  carved  in  ebony,"  as  old  Fuller  says,  she 
could  scarcely  have  been  of  less  service  to  her  protectress.  Her 
notion  of  Free  Labor  seemed  to  translate  it  into  laziness,  and 
taking  liberties;  and,  as  she  seriously  adaed  to  the  work  of  her 
fellow-servants,  without  at  all  contributing  to  their  comfort,  they 
soon  looked  upon  her  as  a  complete  nuisance.  The  house-maid 
dubbed  her  "  a  Divil," — the  cook  roundly  compared  her  to  "a 
mischivus  beast,  as  runs  out  on  a  herd  o'  black  cattle  — and 
both  concurred  in  the  policy  of  laying  all  household  sins  upon 
the  sooty  shoulders — just  as  slatterns  select  a  color  that  hides 
the  dirt.  It  is  certain  that  shortly  after  the  instalment  of  the 
negress  in  the  family,  a  moral  disease  broke  out  with  considerable 
violence,  and  justly  or  not,  the  odium  was  attributed  to  the 
new  comer.  Its  name  was  theft.  First,  there  was  a  shilling 
short  in  some  loose  change — next,  a  missing  half-crown  from  the 
mantel-piece — then  there  was  a  stir  with  a  tea-spoon — anon,  a 
piece  of  work  about  a  thimble.  Things  went,  nobody  knew  how 
— the  "  Divil  "  of  course  excepted.  The  Cook  could,  the  House- 
maid would,  and  Diana  should,  and  ought  to  take  an  oath,  de- 
claratory of  innocence,  before  the  mayor ;  but  as  Diana  did  not 
volunteer  an  affidavit,  like  the  others,  there  was  no  doubt  of  her 
guilt,  in  the  kitchen. 

Miss  Morbid,  however,  came  to  a  very  different  conclusion. 
She  thought  that  whites  who  could  eat  sugar,  were  capable  of 
any  atrocity,  and  had  not  forgotten  the  stand  which  had  been 
made  by  the  "  pale  faces,"  in  favor  of  the  obnoxious  article. 
The  cook  especially  incurred  suspicion  ;  for  she  had  been  noto- 
rious aforetime  for  a  lavish  hand  in  sweetening,  and  was  accor- 
dingly quite  equal  to  the  double  turpitude  of  stealing  and  bearing 
false  witness.  In  fact,  the  mistress  had  arrived  at  the  determi- 
nation of  giving  both  her  white  hussies  their  month's  warning, 
when  unexpectedly  the  thief  was  taken,  as  the  lawyers  say,  "  in 
the  manner,"  and  with  the  goods  upon  the  person.  In  a  word, 
the  ungrateful  black  was  detected  in  the  very  act  of  levying 
what  might  be  called  her  "Black  Mail." 

The  horror  of  Emilia,  on  discovering  that  the  Moor  had  mur- 
dered her  mistress,  was  scarcely  greater  than  that  of  Miss 
Morbid  !    She  hardly,  she  said,  believed  her  own  senses.  You 


o2 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


might  have  knocked  her  down  with  a  feather  !  She  did  not  know 
whether  she  stood  on  her  head  or  her  heels.  She  was  rooted  to 
the  spot !  and  her  hair,  if  it  had  been  her  own,  would  have 
stood  upright  upon  her  head  !  There  was  no  doubt  in  the  case. 
She  saw  the  transfer  of  a  portion  of  her  own  bank-stock,  from 
her  escritoire  into  the  right-hand  pocket  of  her  protegee — she 
heard  it  chink  as  it  dropped  downwards, — she  was  petrified  ! — 
dumb-founded  ! — thunder-bolted  ! — "  annilliated  She  was  as 
white  as  a  sheet,  but  she  felt  as  if  all  the  blacks  in  the  world 
had  just  blown  in  her  face. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  rush  upon  the  robber,  and  insist  on 
restitution — her  second  was  to  sit  down  and  weep, — and  her  third 
was  to  talk.  The  opening,  as  usual,  was  a  mere  torrent  of 
ejaculations  intermixed  with  vituperation — but  she  gradually 
fell  into  a  lecture  with  many  heads.  First,  she  described  all 
she  had  done  for  the  Blacks,  and  then,  alas  !  all  that  the  Blacks 
had  done  for  her.  Next  she  insisted  on  the  enormity  of  the 
crime,  and,  anon,  she  enlarged  on  the  nature  of  its  punishment. 
It  was  here  that  she  was  most  eloquent.  She  traced  the  course 
of  human  justice,  from  detection  to  conviction,  and  thence  to 
execution,  liberally  throwing  dissection  into  the  bargain  :  and 
then  descending  with  Dante  into  the  unmentionable  regions,  she 
painted  its  terrors  and  tortures  with  all  the  circumstantial  fidelity 
that  certain  very  Old  Masters  have  displayed  on  the  same 
subject. 

"And  now,  you  black  wretch,"  she  concluded,  having  just 
given  a  finishing  touch  to  a  portrait  of  Satan  himself ;  "  and 
now,  you  black  wretch,  I  insist  on  knowing  what  I  was  robbed 
for.  Come,  tell  me  what  tempted  you  !  I'm  determined  to  hear 
it !  I  insist,  1  say,  on  knowing  what  was  to  be  done  with  the 
wages  of  iniquity  ! " 

She  insisted,  however,  in  vain.  The  black  wretch  had  seri- 
ously inclined  her  ear  to  the  whole  lecture,  grinning  and  blub- 
bering by  turns.  The  Judge  with  his  black  cap,  the  Counsel 
and  their  wigs,  the  twelve  men  in  a  box,  and  Jack  Ketch  himsell 
— whom  she  associated  with  that  pleasant  West  Indian  personage, 
John  Canoe — had  amused,  nay,  tickled  her  fancy  ;  the  press- 
room, the  irons,  the  rope,  and  the  Ordinary,  whom  she  mistook 


BLACK,  WHITE,  AND  BROWN. 


33 


for  an  overseer,  had  raised  her  curiosity,  and  excited  her  fears ; 
but  the  spiritualities,  without  any  reference  to  Obeah,  had  simply 
mystified  and  disgusted  her,  and  she  was  now  in  a  fit  of  the 
sulks.  Her  mistress,  however,  persisted  in  her  question  ;  and 
not  the  less  pertinaciously,  perhaps,  from  expecting  a  new  peg 
whereon  to  hang  a  fresh  lecture.  She  was  determined  to  learn 
the  destination  of  the  stolen  money ;  and  by  dint  of  insisting, 
cajoling,  and,  above  all,  threatening — for  instance,  with  the  whole 
Posse  Comitatus — she  finally  carried  her  point. 

"  Cuss  him  money  !  Here's  a  fuss !"  exclaimed  the  culprit, 
quite  worn  out  at  last  by  the  persecution.  "  Cuss  him  money  ! 
here's  a  fuss  !  What  me  'teal  him  for  ?  What  me  do  wid  him  ? 
What  anybody  'teal  him  for  ?    Why,  for  sure,  to  ouy  sugar  !" 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER. 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

The  house  where  I  was  born, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn  : 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  day ; 
But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 

Had  borne  my  breath  away. 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

The  roses — red  and  white  ; 
The  violets  and  the  lily-cups, 

Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birth-day, — 

The  tree  is  living  yet ! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing ; 
And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing  : 
My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 
And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 
The  fir  trees  dark  and  high ; 


I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER. 


I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky : 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  'tis  little  joy- 
To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  heaven 
Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 


3d 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


THE  PORTRAIT: 

BEING  AN  APOLOGY  FOR  NOT  MAKING  AN  ATTEMPT  ON  MY  OWN  LIFE 


The  late  inimitable  Charles  Mathews,  in  one  of  his  amusing  en- 
tertainments, used  to  tell  a  story  of  a  certain  innkeeper,  who 
made  it  a  rule  of  his  house,  to  allow  a  candle  to  a  guest,  only  on 
condition  of  his  ordering  a  pint  of  wine.  Whereupon  the  guest 
contends,  on  the  reciprocity  system,  for  a  light  for  every  half- 
bottle,  and  finally  drinks  himself  into  a  general  illumination. 

Something  of  the  above  principle  seems  to  have  obtained  in  the 
case  of  a  Portrait  and  a  Memoir,  which  in  literary  practice  have 
been  usually  dependent  on  each  other — a  likeness  and  a  life, — 
a  candle  and  a  pint  of  wine.  The  mere  act  of  sitting  probably 
suggests  the  idea  of  hatching ;  at  least  an  author  has  seldom 
nested  in  a  painter's  chair,  without  coming  out  afterwards  with 
a  brood  of  Reminiscences,  and  accordingly,  no  sooner  was  my 
effigy  about  to  be  presented  to  the  Public,  than  I  found  myself 
called  upon  by  my  Publisher,  with  a  finished  proof  of  the  en- 
graving in  one  hand,  and  a  request  for  an  account  of  myself  in 
the  other.  He  evidently  supposed,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  I 
had  my  auto-biography  in  the  bottle,  and  that  the  time  was  come 
to  un-cork  and  pour  it  out  with  a  Head. 

To  be  candid,  no  portrait,  perhaps,  ever  stood  more  in  need 
of  such  an  accompaniment.  The  figure  has  certainly  the 
look  of  one  of  those  practical  jokes  whereof  the  original  is 
oftener  suspected  than  really  culpable.  It  might  pass  for  the 
sign  of  "  The  Grave  Maurice."  The  author  of  Elia  has  de- 
clared that  he  once  sat  as  substitute  for  a  whole  series  of  British 
Admirals,*  and  a  physiognomist  might  reasonably  suspect  that 

*  He  perhaps  took  the  hint  from  Dibdin,  who  lays  down  the  rule  in  his 
Sea  Songs,  that  a  Naval  Hero  ought  to  be  a  Lion  in  battle,  but  afterwards 
a  Lamb. 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


37 


in  wantonness  or  weariness,  instead  of  giving  my  head  I  had  pro. 
cured  myself  to  be  painted  by  proxy.  For  who,  that  calls  him- 
self stranger,  could  ever  suppose  that  such  a  pale,  pensive,  peak- 
ing, sentimental,  sonneteering  countenance — with  a  wry  mouth 
as  if  it  always  -laughed  on  its  wrong  side — belonged  bona  fide 
to  the  Editor  of  the  Comic — a  Professor  of  the  Pantagruelian  Phi- 
losophy,  hinted  at  in  the  preface  of  the  present  work  ?  What 
unknown  who  reckons  himself  decidedly  serious,  would  recog- 
nize the  head  and  front  of  my  "offending,"  in  a  visage  not  at  all 
too  hilarious  for  a  frontispiece  to  the  Evangelical  Magazine  ! 
In  point  of  fact  the  owner  has  been  taken  sundry  times,  ere  now, 
for  a  Methodist  Minister,  and  a  pious  turn  has  been  attributed  to 
his  hair — lucus  a  non  lucendo — from  its  having  no  turn  in  it  at 
all.*  In  like  manner  my  literary  contemporaries  who  have 
cared  to  remark  on  my  personals,  have  agreed  in  ascribing  to  me 
a  melancholy  bias ;  thus  an  authority  in  the  New  Monthly  Maga- 
zine has  described  me  as  "  a  grave  anti-pun-like-looking  .per- 
son," whilst  another — in  the  Book  of  Gems — declares  that  "  my 
countenance  is  more  grave  than  merry,"  and  insists,  therefore, 
that  I  am  of  a  pensive  habit,  and  "have  never  laughed  heartily 
in  company  or  in  rhyme."  Against  such  an  inference,  however, 
I  solemnly  protest,  and  if  it  be  the  fault  of  my  features,  I  do  not 
mind  telling  my  face  to  its  face  that  it  insinuates  a  false  Hood, 
and  grossly  misrepresents  a  person  notorious  amongst  friends  for 
laughing  at  strange  times  and  odd  places,  and  in  particular  when 
he  has  the  worst  of  the  rubber.  For  it  is  no  comfort  for  the  loss 
of  points,  by  his  theory,  to  be  upon  thorns.  And  truly  what  can 
be  more  unphilosophical,  than  to  sit  ruefully  as  well  as  whist- 
fully,  with  your  face  inconsistently  playing  at  longs  and  your 
hand  at  shorts, — getting  hypped  as  well  as  pipped, — "  talking  of 
Hoyle,"  as  the  city  lady  said,  "but  looking  like  winegar,"  and 
betraying  as  keen  a  sense  of  the  profit  and  loss,  as  if  the  pack 
had  turned  you  into  a  pedlar. 

But  I  am  digressing;  and  turning  my  back,  as  Lord  Castle- 
reagh  would  have  said,  on  my  face.  The  portrait,  then,  is  gen- 
uine— "  an  ill-favored  thing,  Sir,"  as  Touchstone  says,  "  but 

*  On  a  march  to  Berlin,  with  the  19th  Prussian  Infantry,  I  could  never 
succeed  in  passing  myself  off  as  anything  but  the  Regimental  Chaplain. 


38  PROSE  AND  VERSE. 

mine  own."  For  its  quarrel  with  the  rules  of  Lavater  there  is 
precedent.  I  remember  seeing  on  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence's 
easel,  an  unfinished  head  of  Mr.  Wilberforce,  so  very  merry, -so 
rosy,  so  good-fellowish,  that  nothing  less  than  the  Life  and  Cor- 
respondence  recently  published  could  have  persuaded  me  that  he 
was  really  a  serious  character.  A  memoir,  therefore,  would  be 
the  likeliest  thing  to  convince  the  world  that  the  physiognomy 
alluded  to,  is  actually  Hood's  own : — indeed  a  few  of  the  earlier 
chapters  would  suffice  to  clear  up  the  mystery,  by  proving  that 
my  face  is  only  answering  in  the  affirmative,  the  friendly  in- 
quiry of  the  Poet  of  all  circles — "  Has  sorrow  thy  young  days 
shaded  ?" — and  telling  the  honest  truth  of  one  of  those  rickety 
constitutions  which,  according  to  Hudibras,  seem 

"  as  if  intended 

For  nothing  else  but  to  be  mended." 

To  confess  the  truth,  my  vanity  pricked  up  its  ears  a  little  at 
the  proposition  of  my  publisher.  There  is  something  vastly  flat- 
tering in  the  idea  of  appropriating  the  half  of  a  quarter  of  a 
century,  mixing  it  up  with  your  personal  experience,  and  then 
serving  it  out  as  your  own  Life  and  Times.  On  casting  a  retro- 
spective glance  however  across  Memory's  waste,  it  appeared  so 
literally  a  waste,  that  vanity  herself  shrank  from  the  enclosure 
act,  as  an  unpromising  speculation.  Had  I  foreseen  indeed, 
some  flve-and-thirty  years  ago,  that  such  a  demand  would  be 
made  upon  me,  I  might  have  laid  myself  out  on  purpose,  as  Dr. 
Watts  recommends,  so  as  "  to  give  of  every  day  some  good  ac- 
count at  last."  I  would  have  lived  like  a  Frenchman,  for  effect, 
and  made  my  life  a  long  dress  rehearsal  of  the  future  biography. 
I  would  have  cultivated  incidents  "  pour  servir,"  laid  traps  for 
adventures,  and  illustrated  my  memory  like  Rogers's,  by  a  bril- 
liant series  of  Tableaux.  The  earlier  of  my  Seven  Stages  should 
have  been  more  Wonder  Phenomenon  Comet  and  Balloon-like, 
and  have  been  timed  to  a  more  Quicksilver  pace  than  they  have 
travelled  ;  in  short,  my  Life,  according  to  the  tradesman's  pro- 
mise, should  have  been  "  fully  equal  to  bespoke."  But,  alas  ! 
in  the  absence  of  such  a  Scottish  second-sight,  my  whole  course 
of  existence  up  to  the  present  moment  would  hardly  furnish  ma. 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


39 


terials  for  one  of  those  "  bald  biographies  "  that  content  the  old 
gentlemanly  pages  of  Sylvanus  Urban.  Lamb,  on  being  applied 
to  for  a  Memoir  of  himself,  made  answer  that  it  would  go  into 
an  epigram  ;  and  I  really  believe  that  I  could  compress  my  own 
into  that  baker's  dozen  of  lines  called  a  sonnet.  Montgomery, 
indeed,  has  forestalled  the  greater  part  of  it,  in  his  striking  poem 
on  the  "  Common  Lot,"  but  in  prose,  nobody  could  ever  make 
anything  of  it,  except  Mr.  George  Robins.  The  lives  of  litera- 
ry men  are  proverbially  barren  of  interest,  and  mine,  inste&d  of 
forming  an  exception  to  the  general  rule,  would  bear  the  appli- 
cation of  the  following  words  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  much  better 
than  the  career  of  their  illustrious  author.  "  There  is  no  man 
known  at  all  in  literature,  who  may  not  have  more  to  tell  of  his 
private  life  than  I  have.  I  have  surmounted  no  difficulties  either 
of  birth  or  education,  nor  have  I  been  favored  by  any  particular 
advantages,  and  my  life  has  been  as  void  of  incidents  of  impor- 
tance as  that  of  the  weary  knife-grinder — '  Story !  bless  you, 
1  have  none  to  tell,  sir.' " 

Thus  my  birth  was  neither  so  humble  that,  like  John  Jones,  I 
have  been  obliged  amongst  my  lays  to  lay  the  cloth,  and  to  court 
the  cook  and  the  muses  at  the  same  time  ;  nor  yet  so  lofty,  that, 
with  a  certain  lady  of  title,  I  could  not  write  without  letting 
myself  down.  Then,  for  education,  though  on  the  one  hand  I 
have  not  taken  my  degree,  with  Blucher ;  yet,  on  the  other,  I 
have  not  been  rusticated,  at  the  Open  Air  School,  like  the  Poet 
of  Helpstone.  As  for  incidents  of  importance,  I  remember 
none,  except  being  drawn  for  a  soldier,  which  was  a  hoax,  and 
having  tne  opportunity  of  giving  a  casting  vote  on  a  great  paro- 
chial question,  only  I  didn't  attend.  I  have  never  been  even 
third  in  a  duel,  or  crossed  in  love.  The  stream  of  time  has 
flowed  on  with  me  very  like  that  of  the  New  River,  which 
everybody  knows  has  so  little  romance  about  it,  that  its  Head 
has  never  troubled  us  with  a  Tale.  My  own  story  then,  to  pos- 
sess any  interest,  must  be  a  fib. 

Truly  given,  with  its  egotism  and  its  barrenness,  it  would  look 
too  like  the  chalked  advertisements  on  a  dead  wall.    Moreover,  » 
Pope  has  read  a  lesson  to  self-importance  in  the  Memoirs  of 
P.  P.,  the  parish  Clerk,  who  was  only  notable  after  all  amongst 


40 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


his  neighbors  as  a  shallower  of  loaches.  Even  in  such  prac- 
tical whims  and  oddities  I  am  deficient, — for  instance,  eschewing 
razors,  or  bolting  clasp-knives,  riding  on  painted  ponies,  sleeping 
for  weeks,  fasting  for  months,  devouring  raw  tripe,  and  similar 
eccentricities,  which  have  entitled  sundry  knaves,  quacks, 
boobies,  and  brutes,  to  a  brief  biography  in  the  Wonderful  Maga- 
zine. And,  in  the  absence  of  these  distinctions,  I  am  equally 
deficient  in  any  spiritual  pretensions.  I  have  had  none  of  those 
experiences  which  render  the  lives  of  saintlings,  not  yet  in  their 
teens,  worth  their  own  weight  in  paper  and  print,  and  conse- 
quently my  personal  history,  as  a  Tract,  would  read  as  flat  as 
the  Pilgrim's  Progress  without  the  Giants,  the  Lions,  and  the 
grand  single  combat  with  the  Devil. 

To  conclude,  my  life, — "  upon  my  life," — is  not  worth  giving, 
or  taking.  The  principal  just  suffices  for  me  to  live  upon  ;  and 
of  course,  would  afford  little  interest  to  any  one  else.  Besides, 
1  have  a  bad  memory ;  and  a  personal  history  would  assuredly 
be  but  a  middling  one,  of  which  I  have  forgotten  the  beginning 
and  cannot  foresee  the  end.  I  must,  therefore,  respectfully  de- 
cline giving  my  life  to  the  world — at  least  till  I  have  done  with 
it — but  to  soften  the  refusal,  I  am  willing,  instead  of  a  written 
character  of  myself,  to  set  down  all  that  I  can  recall  of  other 
authors,  and,  accordingly,  the  next  number  will  contain  the  first 
instalment  of 

MY  LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


41 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


"  Commen§ons  par  le  commencement." 

The  very  earliest  of  one's  literary  recollections  must  be  the  ac- 
quisition of  the  alphabet;  and  in  the  knowledge  of  the  first  rudi- 
ments I  was  placed  on  a  par  with  the  Learned  Pig,  by  two 
maiden  ladies  that  were  called  Hogsflesh.  The  circumstance 
would  be  scarcely  worth  mentioning,  but  that  being  a  day- 
boarder,  and  taking  my  dinner  with  the  family,  I  became  aware 
of  a  Baconian  brother,  who  was  never  mentioned  except  by  his 
Initial,  and  was  probably  the  prototype  of  the  sensitive  "  Mr.  H.," 
in  Lamb's  unfortunate  farce.  The  school  in  question  was  situ- 
ated in  Token-house  Yard,  a  convenient  distance  for  a  native  of 
the  Poultry,  or  Birchin-lane,  I  forget  which,  and  in  truth  am  not 
particularly  anxious  to  be  more  certainly  acquainted  with  my 
parish.  It  was  a  metropolitan  one,  however,  which  is  recorded 
without  the  slightest  repugnance  ;  firstly,  for  that,  practically,  I 
had  no  choice  in  the  matter ;  and  secondly,  because,  theoreti- 
cally, I  would  as  lief  have  been  a  native  of  London  as  of  Stoke 
Pogis  or  Little  Pedlington.  If  such  local  prejudices  be  of  any 
worth,  the  balance  ought  to  be  in  favor  of  the  capital.  The 
Dragon  of  Bow  Church,  or  Gresham's  Grasshopper,  is  as  good 
a  terrestrial  sign  to  be  born  under  as  the  dunghill  cock  on  a 
village  steeple.  Next  to  being  a  citizen  of  the  world,  it  must 
be  the  best  thing  to  be  born  a  citizen  of  the  world's  greatest  city. 
To  a  lover  of  his  kind,  it  should  be  a  welcome  dispensation  that 
cast  his  nativity  amidst  the  greatest  congregation  of  the  species  ; 
but  a  literary  man  should  exult  rather  than  otherwise  that  he 
first  saw  the  light — or  perhaps  the  fog — in  the  same  metropolis 
as  Milton,  Gray,  De  Foe,  Pope,  Byron,  Lamb,  and  other  town- 
born  authors,  whose  fame  has  nevertheless  triumphed  over  the 


42 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Bills  of  Mortality.  In  such  a  goodly  company  I  cheerfully  take 
up  my  livery  ;  and  especially  as  Cockneyism,  properly  so  called, 
appears  to  be  confined  to  no  particular  locality  or  station  in  life. 
Sir  Wajter  Scott  has  given  a  splendid  instance  of  it  in  an  Orca- 
dian, who  prayed  to  the  Lord  to  bless  his  own  tiny  ait,  "  not 
forgetting  the  neighboring  island  of  Great  Britain;"  and  the 
most  recent  example  of  the  style  I  have  met  with,  was  in  the 
Memoirs  of  Sir  William  Knighton,  being  an  account  of  sea  perils 
and  sufferings  during  a  passage  across  the  Irish  Channel  by  "  the 
First  Gentleman  in  Europe." 

Having  alluded  to  my  first  steps  on  the  ladder  of  learning,  it 
may  not  be  amiss  in  this  place  to  correct  an  assertion  of  my 
biographer  in  the  Book  of  Gems,  who  states,  that  my  education, 
was  finished  at  a  certain  suburban  academy.  In  this  ignorant 
world,  where  we  proverbially  live  and  learn,  we  may  indeed 
leave  off  school,  but  our  education  only  terminates  with  life 
itself.  But  even  in  a  more  limited  sense,  instead  of  my  educa- 
tion being  finished,  my  own  impression  is,  that  it  never  so  much 
as  progressed  towards  so  desirable  a  consummation  at  any  such 
establishment,  although  much  invaluable  time  was  spent  at  some 
of  those  institutions  where  young  gentlemen  are  literally  boarded, 
lodged,  and  done  for.  My  vary  first  essay  was  at  one  of  those 
places  improperly  called  semi-naries,  because  they  do  not  half 
teach  anything  ;  the  principals  being  probably  aware  that  the 
little  boys  are  as  often  consigned  to  them  to  be  "  out  of  a  mother's 
way,"  as  for  anything  else.  Accordingly,  my  memory  presents 
but  a  very  dim  image  of  a  pedagogical  powdered  head,  amidst 
a  more  vivid  group  of  females  of  a  composite  charter-part  dry- 
nurse,  part  housemaid,  and  part  governess, — with  a  matronly 
figure  in  the  back-ground,  very  like  Mrs.  S.,  allegorically  repre- 
senting, as  Milton  says,  "  our  universal  mother."  But  there  is 
no  glimpse  of  Minerva.  Of  those  pleasant  associations  with 
early  school  days,  of  which  so  much  has  been  said  and  sung, 
there  is  little  amongst  my  retrospections,  excepting,  perhaps, 
some  sports  which,  like  charity,  lriight  have  been  enjoyed  at 
home,  without  the  drawbacks  of  sundry  strokes,  neither  apoplectic 
nor  paralytic,  periodical  physic,  and  other  unwelcome  extras. 
I  am  not  sure  whether  an  invincible  repugnance  to  early  rising 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


43 


may  not  be  attributable  to  our  precocious  wintry  summonses, 
from  a  warm  bed  into  a  dim  damp  school-room,  to  play  at  filling 
our  heads  on  an  empty  stomach ;  and  perhaps  I  owe  my  decided 
sedentary  habits  to  the  disgust  at  our  monotonous  walks,  or  rather 
processions,  or  maybe  to  the  sufferings  of  those  longer  excur- 
sions of  big  and  little,  where  a  pair  of  compasses  had  to  pace  as 
far  and  as  fast  as  a  pair  of  tongs.  Nevertheless,  I  yet  recall, 
with  wonder,  the  occasional  visits  of  grown-up  ex-scholars  to 
their  old  school,  all  in  a  flutter  of  gratitude  and  sensibility  at 
recognizing  the  spot  where  they  had  been  caned,  and  horsed, 
and  flogged,  and  fagged,  and  brimstone-and-treacled,  and  black- 
dosed,  and  stick-jawed,  and  kibed,  and  fined, — where  they  had 
caught  the  measles  and  the  mumps,  and  been  overtasked,  and 
undertaught — and  then,  by  way  of  climax,  sentimentally  offer- 
ing a  presentation  snuff-box  to  their  revered  preceptor,  with  an 
inscription,  ten  to  one,  in  dog  Latin  on  the  lid  ! 

For  my  own  part,  were  I  to  revisit  such  a  haunt  of  my  youth, 
it  would  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure,  out  of  mere  regard  to 
the  rising  generation,  to  find  Prospect  House  turned  into  a  Floor 
Cloth  Manufactory,  and  the  playground  converted  to  a  bleach- 
field.  The  tabatiere  is  out  of  the  question.  In  the  way  of  learn- 
ing, I  carried  off  nothing  in  exchange  for  my  knife  and  fork,  and 
spoon,  but  a  prize  for  Latin  without  knowing  the  Latin  for  prize, 
and  a  belief  which  I  had  afterwards  to  unbelieve  again,  that  a 
block  of  marble  could  be  cut  in  two  with  a  razor. 

To  be  classical,  as  Ducrow  would  say,  the  Athenians,  the 
day  before  the  Festival  of  Theseus,  their  Founder,  gratefully 
sacrificed  a  ram,  in  memory  of  Corridas  the  schoolmaster,  who 
had  been  his  instructor ;  but  in  the  present  day,  were  such  offer- 
ings in  fashion,  how  frequently  would  the  appropriate  animal  be 
a  donkey,  and  especially  too  big  a  donkey  to  get  over  the  Pons 
Asinorum  ! 

From  the  preparatory  school,  I  was  transplanted  in  due  time 
to  what  is  called  by  courtesy,  a  finishing  one,  where  I  was  im- 
mediately set  to  begin  everything  again  at  the  beginning.  As 
this  was  but  a  backward  way  of  coming  forward,  there  seemed 
little  chance  of  my  ever  becoming  what  Mrs.  Malaprop  calls  "  a 
progeny  of  learning;"  indeed  my  education  was  pursued  very 


44 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


much  after  the  plan  laid  down  by  that  feminine  authority.  I 
had  nothing  to  do  with  Hebrew,  or  Algebra,  or  Simony,  or  Flux- 
ions, or  Paradoxes,  or  such  inflammatory  branches ;  but  I  ob- 
tained a  supercilious  knowledge  of  accounts,  with  enough  of 
geometry  to  make  me  acquainted  with  the  contagious  countries. 
Moreover,  I  became  fluent  enough  in  some  unknown  tongue  to 
protect  me  from  the  French  Mark ;  and  I  was  sufficiently  at 
home  (during  the  vacations)  in  the  quibbles  of  English  gram- 
mar, to  bore  all  my  parents,  relations,  friends,  and  acquaintance, 
by  a  pedantical  mending  of  their  "  cakeology."  Such  was  the 
sum  total  of  my  acquirements ;  being,  probably,  quite  as  much 
as  I  should  have  learned  at  a  Charity  School,  with  the  exception 
of  the  parochial  accomplishment  of  hallooing  and  singing  of  an- 
thems. 

I  have  entered  into  these  personal  details,  though  pertaining 
rather  to  illiterate  than  to  literary  reminiscences,  partly  because 

he  important  subject  of  Education  has  become  of  prominent  in 
terest,  and  partly  to  hint  that  a  writer  may  often  mean  in  earnest 
what  he  says  in  jest.  One  of  my  readers  at  least  has  given  me 
credit  for  a  serious  purpose.  A  schoolmaster  called,  during  the 
vacation,  on  the  father  of  one  of  his  pupils,  and  in  answer  to  his 
announcement  of  the  re-opening  of  his  establishment,  was  in- 
formed that  the  young  gentleman  was  not  to  return  to  the  aca- 
demy.   The  worthy  parent  declared  that  he  had  read  the  "  Car- 

naby  Correspondence,"  in  the  Comic  Annual,  and  had  made  up 
his  mind.  "  But,  my  dear  Sir,"  expostulated  the  pedagogue,  "  you 
cannot  be  serious  ;  why  the  Comic  Annual  is  nothing  but  a  book 
full  of  jokes  !"  "  Yes,  yes,"  returned  the  father,  "  but  it  has  let  me 
into  a  few  of  your  tricks-  I  believe  Mr.  Hood.  James  is  not 
coming  again !" 

And  now  it  may  be  reasonably  asked,  where  I  did  learn  any- 
thing if  not  at  these  establishments,  which  promise  Universal 
Knowledge — extras  included — and  yet  unaccountably  produce 
so  very  few  Admirable  Crichtons  ?  *  It  may  plausibly  be 
objected,  that  I  did  not  duly  avail  myself  of  such  overflowing 

*  In  spite  of  hundreds  of  associates,  it  has  never  happened  to  me,  amongst 
the  very  many  distinguished  names  connected  with  science  or  literature,  to 
recognize  one  as  belonging  to  a  school-fellow. 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


40 


opportunities  to  dabble,  dip,  duck  in,  and  drink  deeply  of,  the 
Pierian  spring,  that  I  was  an  Idler,  Lounger,  Tatler,  Rambler, 
Spectator,  anything  rather  than  a  student.  To  which  my  reply 
must  be,  first,  that  the  severest  punishment  ever  inflicted  on  my 
shoulders  was  for  a  scholar-like  offence,  the  being  "  fond  of  my 
book,"  only  it  happened  to  be  Robinson  Crusoe ;  and  secondly, 
that  I  did  go  ahead  at  another  guess  sort  of  academy,  a  reference 
to  which  will  be  a  little  flattering  to  those  Houses  which  claim 
Socrates,  Aristotle,  Alfred,  and  other  Leamedissimi  Woithii,  as 
their  Sponsors  and  Patron  Saints.  The  school  that  really 
schooled  me  being  comparatively  of  a  very  humble  order — 
without  sign — without  prospectus — without  ushers — without  am- 
ple and  commodious  premises — in  short,  without  pretension,  and, 
consequently,  almost  without  custom. 

The  autumn  of  the  year  1811,  along  with  a  most  portentous 
comet,  "  with  fear  of  change  perplexing  monarchs,"  brought, 
alas  !  a  melancholy  revolution  in  my  own  position  and  prospects, 
by  the  untimely  death  of  my  father  ;  and  my  elder  brother 
shortly  following  him  to  the  grave,  my  bereaved  mother  naturally 
drew  the  fragments  of  the  family  more  closely  around  her,  so 
that  thenceforward  her  dearest  care  was  to  keep  her  "  only  son, 
myself,  at  home."  She  did  not,  however,  neglect  my  future 
interest,  or  persuade  herself  by  any  maternal  vanity  that  a  boy 
of  twelve  years  old  could  have  precociously  finished  his  educa- 
tion ;  and,  accordingly,  the  next  spring  found  me  at  what  might 
have  been  literally  called  a  High  School,  in  reference  to  its  dis- 
tance from  the  ground. 

In  a  house,  formerly  a  suburban  seat  of  the  unfortunate  Earl 
of  Essex — over  a  grocer's  shop — up  two  pair  of  stairs,  there  was 
a  very  select  day-school,  kept  by  a  decayed  Dominie,  as  he 
would  have  been  called  in  his  native  land.  In  his  better  days, 
when  my  brother  was  his  pupil,  he  had  been  master  of  one  of 
those  wholesale  concerns  in  which  so  many  ignorant  men  have 
made  fortunes,  by  favor  of  high  terms,  low  ushers,  gullible 
parents,  and  victimized  little  boys.  As  our  worthy  Dominie,  on 
the  contrary,  had  failed  to  realize  even  a  competence,  it  may  be 
inferred  logically,  that  he'  had  done  better  by  his  pupils  than  by 
himself;  and  my  own  experience  certainly  went  to  prove  that 


46  PROSE  AND  VERSE. 

he  attended  to  the  interests  of  his  scholars,  however  he  might 
have  neglected  his  own.  Indeed,  he  less  resembled,  even  in 
externals,  the  modern  worldly  trading  Schoolmaster  than  the 
good,  honest,  earnest,  olden  Pedagogue — a  pedant,  perchance, 
but  a  learned  one,  with  whom  teaching  was  "  a  labor  of  love," 
who  had  a  proper  sense  of  the  dignity  and  importance  of  his  call- 
ing, and  was  content  to  find  a  main  portion  of  his  reward  in  tlv 
honorable  proficiency  of  his  disciples.  Small  as  was  our  Col- 
lege, its  Principal  maintained  his  state,  and  walked  gowned  an;l 
covered.  His  cap  was  of  faded  velvet,  of  black,  or  blue,  or 
purple,  or  sad  green,  or  as  it  seemed,  of  all  together,  with  a 
nuance  of  brown.  His  robe,  of  crimson  damask,  lined  with  the 
national  tartan.  A  quaint,  carved,  high-backed,  elbowed  article, 
looking  like  an  emigre*,  from  a  set  that  had  been  at  home  in  an 
aristocratical  drawing-room,  under  the  ancien  regime,  was  his 
Professional  Chair,  which,  with  his  desk,  was  appropriately  ele- 
vated on  a  dais,  some  inches  above  the  common  floor.  From  this 
moral  and  material  eminence,  he  cast  a  vigilant  yet  kindly  eye 
over  some  dozen  of  youngsters ;  for  adversity,  sharpened  by 
habits  of  authority,  had  not  soured  him,  or  mingled  a  single  tinge 
of  bile  with  the  peculiar  red-streak  complexion,  so  common  to 
the  healthier  natives  of  the  North.  On  one  solitary  occasion, 
within  my  memory,  was  he  seriously,  yet  characteristically  dis- 
composed, and  that  was  by  his  own  daughter,  whom  he  accused 
of  "forgetting  all  regard  for  common  decorum,"  because,  for- 
getting that  he  was  a  Dominie  as  well  as  a  Parent,  she  had  heed- 
lessly addressed  him  in  public  as  "  Father,"  instead  of  "  Papa." 
The  mere  provoking  contrariety  of  a  dunce  never  stirred  his 
spleen,  but  rather  spurred  his  endeavor,  in  spite  of  the  axiom,  to 
make  Nihil  fit  for  anything.  He  loved  teaching  for  teaching's 
sake ;  his  kill-horse  happened  to  be  his  hobby  :  and  doubtless, 
if  he  had  met  with  a  penniless  boy  on  the  road  to  learning,  he 
would  have  given  him  a  lift,  like  the  charitable  Waggoner  to 
Dick  Whittington — for  love.  I  recall,  therefore,  with  pleasure, 
the  cheerful  alacrity  with  which  I  used  to  step  up  to  recite  my 
lesson,  constantly  forewarned — for  every  true  schoolmaster  has 
his  stock  joke — not  to  "stand  in  my  own  light."  It  was  im- 
possible not  to  take  an  interest  in  learning  what  he  seemed 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


47 


so  interested  in  teaching  ;  and  in  a  few  months  my  education 
progressed  infinitely  farther  than  it  had  done  in  as  many  years 
under  the  listless  superintendance  of  B.  A.,  and  LL.  D.  and 
Assistants.  I  picked  up  some  Latin,  was  a  tolerable  English 
Grammarian,  and  so  good  a  French  scholar,  that  I  earned  a  few 
guineas — my  first  literary  fee — by  revising  a  new  edition  of 
"  Paul  et  Virginie"  for  the  press.  Moreover,  as  an  accountant, 
I  could  work  a  summum  oonum — i.  e.,  a  good  sum. 

In  the  meantime, — so  generally  unfortunate  is  the  courtship  of 
that  bashful  undertoned  wooer,  Modest  Merit,  to  that  loud,  brazen 
masculine,  worldly  heiress,  Success — the  school  did  not  prosper. 
The  number  of  scholars  diminished  rather  than  increased.  At 
least  no  new  boys  came — but  one  fine  morning,  about  nine 
o'clock,  a  great  "  she  gal,"  of  fifteen  or  sixteen,  but  so  remarka- 
bly well  grown  that  she  might  have  been  "  any  of  our  mothers," 
made  her  unexpected  appearance  with  bag  and  books.  The 
sensation  that  she  excited  is  not  to  be  described  !  The  apparition 
of  a  Governess,  with  a  Proclamation  of  a  Gynecocracy,  could  not 
have  been  more  astounding !  Of  course  SHE  instantly  formed 
a  class ;  and  had  any  form  SHE  might  prefer  to  herself : — the 
most  of  us  being  just  old  enough  to  resent  what  was  considered 
as  an  affront  on  the  corduroy  sex,  and  just  young  enough  to  be 
beneath  any  gallantry  to  the  silken  one.  The  truth  was,  sub 
rosa,  that  there  was  a  plan  for  translating  us,  and  turning  the 
unsuccessful  Boys'  School  into  a  Ladies'  Academy,  to  be  con- 
ducted by  the  Dominie's  eldest  daughter — but  it  had  been  thought 
prudent  to  be  well  on  with  the  new  set  before  being  off  with  the 
old.  A  brief  period  only  had  elapsed,  when,  lo !  a  leash  of 
female  school  Fellows — three  sisters,  like  the  Degrees  of  Com- 
parison personified,  Big,  Bigger,  and  Biggest — made  their  un- 
welcome appearance,  and  threatened  to  push  us  from  our  stools. 
They  were  greeted,  accordingly,  with  all  the  annoyances  that 
juvenile  malice  could  suggest.  It  is  amusing,  yet  humiliating, 
to  remember  the  nuisances  the  sex  endured  at  the  hands  of  those 
who  were  thereafter  to  honor  the  shadow  of  its  shoe-tie — to 
groan,  moan,  sigh,  and  sicken  for  its  smiles, — to  become  poetical, 
prosaical,  nonsensical,  lack-a-daisical,  and  perhaps  even  melo- 
dramatical  for  its  sake.    Numberless  were  the  desk-quakes,  the 


4  b 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


ink-spouts,  the  book-bolts,  the  pea-showers,  and  other  unregis- 
tered phenomena,  which  likened  the  studies  of  those  four  unlucky 
maidens  to  the  "  Pursuit  of  Knowledge  under  Difficulties,"' — so 
that  it  glads  me  to  reflect,  that  I  was  in  a  very  small  minority 
against  the  persecution  ;  having  already  begun  to  read  poetry, 
and  even  to  write  something  which  was  egregiously  mistaken 
for  something  of  the  same  nature.  The  final  result  of  the  strug- 
gle in  the  academic  nesl — whether  the  hen-cuckoos  succeeded  in 
ousting  the  cock-sparrows,  or  vice  versa — is  beyond  my  record  ; 
seeing  that  I  was  just  then  removed  from  the  scene  of  contest,  to 
be  introduced  into  that  Universal  School,  where,  as  in  the  pre- 
paratory one,  we  have  very  unequal  shares  in  the  flogging,  the 
fagging,  the  task-work,  and  the  pocket-money  ;  but  the  same 
breaking  up  to  expect,  and  the  same  eternity  of  happy  holidays 
to  hope  for  in  the  Grand  Recess. 

In  brief,  a  friend  of  the  family  having  taken  a  fancy  to  me, 
proposed  to  initiate  me  in  those  profitable  mercantile  mysteries 
which  enabled  Sir  Thomas  Gresham  to  gild  his  grasshopper  ; 
and  like  another  Frank  Osbaldestone,  I  found  myself  planted  on 
a  counting-house  stool,  which  nevertheless  served  occasionally 
for  a  Pegasus,  on  three  legs,  every  foot,  of  course,  being  a  dactyl 
or  a  spondee.  In  commercial  matters,  the  only  lesson  imprinted 
on  my  memory  is  the  rule,  that  when  a  ship's  crew  from  Arch- 
angel come  to  receive  their  L.  S.  D.,  you  must  lock  up  your 
P.  Y.  C. 


MY  APOLOGY. 


49 


MY  APOLOGY. 


Gentle  Readers, 

For  the  present  month,  there  must  be  what  Dr.  John- 
son called  a  solution  of  continuity  in  my  "  Literary  Reminiscen- 
ces." Confined  to  my  chamber  by  what  ought  to  be  termed 
roo?7iatism — then  attacked  by  my  old  livery  complaint — and 
finally,  by  a  minor,  but  troublesome  malady,  the  Present  has  too 
much  prevailed  over  the  Past,  to  let  me  indulge  in  any  retrospec- 
tive reviews.  In  such  cases,  on  the  stage,  when  a  Performer  is 
unable  to  support  his  character,  a  substitute  is  usually  found  to 
read  the  part;  but  unfortunately,  in  the  present  case  there  is  no 
part  written,  and  consequently  it  cannot  be  read.  But  apropos  of 
theatricals — there  is  an  anecdote  in  point. 

In  the  Olympic  days  of  the  great  Elliston,  there  was  one 
evening  a  tremendous  tumult  at  his  Theatre,  in  consequence  of 
the  absence  of  a  favorite  performer.  One  man  in  the  pit — a 
Butcher — was  especially  vociferous  in  his  cry  for  "  Carl !  Carl ! 
Carl !"  Others  called  for  the  Manager,  who  duly  made  his 
appearance,  and  black  as  the  weather  looked,  he  was  the  very 
sort  of  pilot  to  weather  the  storm.  With  one  of  his  princely  bows 
he  proceeded  to  address  the  House.  "  Ladies  and  Gentlemen — 
but  by  your  leave  I  will  address  myself  to  a  single  individual.  I 
will  ask  that  gentleman  (pointing  to  the  vociferous  Butcher)  what 
right  he  has  to  demand  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Carl  ?"  "  'Cos," 
said  the  Butcher,  "  'cos  he's  down  in  the  Bill."  Such  an  unde- 
niable answer  would  have  staggered  any  other  Manager  than 
Elliston,  but  he  was  not  easily  to  be  disconcerted.  "  Because 
he  is  down  in  the  bill !"  he  echoed,  in  a  tone  of  the  loftiest  indig- 
nation :  "  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  the  Mr.  Carl,  so  unseasonably, 
so  vociferously,  and  so  unfeelingly  called  for,  is  at  this  very 
5 


50 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


moment  laboring  under  severe  illness — he  is  in  bed.  And  let 
me  ask,  is  a  man,  a  fellow-creature,  a  human  being,  to  be  torn 
from  his  couch,  from  his  home,  on  a  cold  night,  from  the  affec- 
tionate attention  of  his  wife  and  family,  at  the  risk  of  his  valua- 
ble life  perhaps,  to  go  through  a  fatiguing  part  because  he  happens 
to  be  DOWN  IN  THE  BILL  ?"  [Cries  of  "  Shame  !  shame  !" 
from  all  parts  of  the  house.]  "  And  yet,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
there  stands  a  man — if  I  may  call  him  so — a  Butcher,  that  for 
his  own  selfish  gratification — the  amusement  of  a  few  short 
hours — would  risk  the  very  existence  of  a  deserving  member  of 
society,  a  good  husband,  father,  friend,  and  one  of  your  favorite 
actors',  and  all,  forsooth,  because  he  is  DOWN  IN  THE  BILL  »" 
[Universal  hooting,  with  cries  of  "Turn  him  out."]  "By  all 
means,"  acquiesced  the  Manager,  with  one  of  his  best  bows — and 
the  indignant  pittites  actually  hooted  and  kicked  their  owntham- 
pion  out  of  the  theatre,  as  something  more  than  a  Butcher,  and 
less  than  a  Christian. 

Now  I  am  myself,  gentle  readers,  in  the  same  predicament 
with  Mr.  Carl.  Like  him  I  am  an  invalid — and  like  him  I  am 
unfortunately  down  in  the  Bill.  It  would  not  become  me  to  set 
forth  my  own  domestic  or  social  virtues,  or  to  hint  what  sort  of 
gap  my  loss  would  make  in  society — still  less  would  it  consist 
with  modesty  to  compare  myself  with  a  favorite  actor — but  as  a 
mere  human  being  I  throw  myself  on  your  mercy,  and  ask,  in 
common  charity,  would  you  have  had  me  leave  my  warm  bed, 
to  shiver  in  a  printer's  damp  sheets,  at  the  risk  of  my  reputation 
perhaps,  and  for  the  mere  amusement  of  some  half  hour,  or  more 
probably  for  no  amusement  at  all — simply  because  I  was  "  down 
in  the  Bill?" 

But  there  is  no  such  Butcher,  or  Butcheress,  or  little  Butcher- 
ling,  amongst  you ;  and  by  your  good  leave  and  patience,  the 
instalment  of  my  Reminiscences  that  is  over  due,  shall  be  paid 
with  interest  ir.  the  next  number. 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES 


51 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 

No  I. 


Time  was,  I  sat  upon  a  lofty  stool, 

At  lofty  desk,  and  with  a  clerkly  pen 

Began  each  morning,  at  the  stroke  of  ten, 

To  write  in  Bell  and  Co.'s  commercial  school ; 

In  Warnford  Court,  a  shady  nook  and  cool, 

The  favorite  retreat  of  merchant  men  ; 

Yet  would  my  quill  turn  vagrant  even  then, 

And  take  stray  dips  in  the  Castalian  pool. 

Now  double  entry — now  a  flowery  trope — 

Mjngling  poetic  honey  with  trade  wax — 

Blogg,  Brothers — Milton — Grote  and  Prescott — Pope — 

Bristles — and  Hogg — Glyn  Mills  and  Halifax — 

Rogers — and  Towgood — Hemp — the  Bard  of  Hope — 

Barilla — Byron — Tallow — Burns — and  Flax  ! 

My  commercial  career  was  a  brief  one,  and  deserved  only  a 
sonnet  in  commemoration.  The  fault,  however,  lay  not  with  the 
muses.  To  commit  poetry  indeed  is  a  crime  ranking  next  to 
forgery  in  the  counting-house  code  ;  and  an  Ode  or  a  song  dated 
Copthall  Court,  would  be  as  certainly  noted  and  protested  as  a 
dishonored  bill.  I  have  even  heard  of  an  unfortunate  clerk,  who 
lost  his  situation  through  being  tempted  by  the  jingle  to  subscribe 
under  an  account  current 

"  Excepted  all  errors 
Made  by  John  Ferrers," 

his  employer  emphatically  declaring  that  Poetry  and  Logwood 
could  never  coexist  in  the  same  head.  The  principal  of  our  firm 
on  the  contrary  had  a  turn  for  the  Belles  Lettres,  and  would  have 


52 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


winked  with  both  eyes  at  verses  which  did  not  intrude  into  an 
invoice  or  confuse  their  figures  with  those  of  the  Ledger.  The 
true  cause  of  my  retirement  from  Commercial  affairs  was  more 
prosaic.  My  constitution,  though  far  from  venerable,  had  begun 
to  show  symptoms  of  decay  :  my  appetite  failed,  and  its  princi- 
pal creditor,  the  stomach,  received  only  an  ounce  in  the  pound. 
My  spirits  daily  became  a  shade  lower — my  flesh  was  held  less 
and  less  firmly — in  short,  in  the  language  of  the  price  current,  it 
was  expected  that  I  must  "  submit  to  a  decline."  The  Doctors 
who  were  called  in,  declared  imperatively  that  a  mercantile  life 
would  be  the  death  of  me — that  by  so  much  sitting,  I  was  hatch- 
ing a  whole  brood  of  complaints,  and  that  no  Physician  would 
insure  me  as  a  merchantman  from  the  Port  of  London  to  the  next 
Spring.  The  Exchange,  they  said,  was  against  me,  and  as  the 
Exchange  itself  used  to  ring  with  "  Life  let  us  Cherish,"  there 
was  no  resisting  the  advice.  I  was  ordered  to  abstain  from 
Ashes,  Bristles,  and  Petersburg  yellow  candle,  and  to  indulge  in 
a  more  generous  diet — to  take  regular  country  exercise  instead 
of  the  Russia  Walk,  and  to  go  to  bed  early  even  on  Foreign  Post 
nights.  Above  all  I  was  recommended  change  of  air,  and  in 
particular  the  bracing  breezes  of  the  North.  Accordingly  I  was 
soon  shipped,  as  per  advice,  in  a  Scotch  Smack,  which  "  smacked 
through  the  breeze,"  as  Dibdin  sings,  so  merrily,  that  on  the 
fourth  morning  we  were  in  sight  of  the  prominent  old  Steeple  of 
"  Bonny  Dundee." 

My  Biographer,  in  the  Book  of  Gems,  alludes  to  this  voyage, 
and  infers  from  some  verses — "  Gadzooks !  must  one  swear  to 
the  truth  of  a  song  ?" — that  it  sickened  me  of  the  sea.  Nothing 
can  be  more  unfounded.  The  marine  terrors  and  disagreeables 
enumerated  in  the  poem,  belong  to  a  Miss  Oliver,  and  not  to  me, 
who  regard  the  ocean  with  a  natural  and  national  partiality. 
Constitutionally  proof  against  that  nausea  which  extorts  so  many 
wave-offerings  from  the  afflicted,  I  am  as  constant  as  Captain 
Basil  Hall  himself,  in  my  regard  "  for  the  element  that  never 
tires."  Some  washy  fellows,  it  is  true,  Fresh-men  from  Cam- 
bridge and  the  like,  affect  to  prefer  river  or  even  pond  water  for 
their  aquatics — the  tame  ripple  to  the  wild  wave,  the  prose  to 
"the  poetry  of  motion."    But  give  me  "  the  mu1  itudinous  sea," 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


5^ 


resting  or  rampant,  with  all  its  variable  moods  and  changeable 
coloring.  Methought,  when  pining  under  the  maladie  du  pays,  on 
a  hopeless,  sick  bed,  inland,  in  Germany,  it  would  have  relieved 
those  yearnings  but  to  look  across  an  element  so  instinct  with 
English  associations,  that  it  would  seem  rather  to  unite  me  to 
than  sever  me  from  my  native  island.  And,  truly,  when  I  did 
at  last  stand  on  the  brink  of  the  dark  blue  sea,  my  home-sick 
wishes  seemed  already  half  fulfilled,  and  it  was  not  till  many 
months  afterwards  that  I  actually  crossed  the  Channel.  But  J 
am,  besides,  personally  under  deep  obligations  to  the  great  deep. 
Twice,  indeed,  in  a  calm  and  in  a  storm,  has  my  life  been  threat- 
ened with  a  salt-water  catastrophe ;  but  that  quarrel  has  long 
been  made  up,  and  forgiven,  in  gratitude  for  the  blessing  and 
bracing  influence  of  the  breezes  that  smack  of  the  ocean  brine. 
Dislike  the  sea  ! — With  what  delight  aforetime  used  I  to  swim  in 
it,  to  dive  in  it,  to  sail  on  it!  Ask  honest  Tom  Woodgate,  of 
Hastings,  who  made  of  me,  for  a  landsman,  a  tolerable  boatsman. 
Even  now,  when  do  I  feel  so  easy  in  body,  and  so  cheerful  in 
spirit,  as  when  walking  hard  by  the  surge,  listening,  as  if  expect- 
ing some  whispering  of  friendly  but  distant  voices,  in  its  eternal 
murmuring.  Sick  of  the  sea  !  If  ever  I  have  a  water-drinking 
fancy,  it  is  a  wish  that  the  ocean  brine  had  been  sweet,  or  sour 
instead  of  salt,  so  as  to  be  potable  ;  for  what  can  be  more  tempt- 
ing to  the  eye  as  a  draught,  than  the  pure  fluid,  almost  invisible 
with  clearness,  as  it  lies  in  some  sandy  scoop,  or  rocky  hollow,  a 
true  "  Diamond  of  the  Desert,"  to  say  nothing  of  the  same  living 
liquid  in  its  effervescing  state,  when  it  sparkles  up,  hissing  and 
bubbling  in  the  ship's  wake — the  very  Champaigne  of  water ! 
Above  all,  what  intellectual  solar  and  soothing  syrup  have  I  not 
derived  from  the  mere  contemplation  of  the  boundless  main, — 
the  most  effectual  and  innocent  of  mental  sedatives,  and  often 
called  in  aid  of  that  practical  philosophy  it  has  been  my  wont 
to  recommend  in  the  present  work.  For  whenever,  owing  to 
physical  depression,  or  a  discordant  state  of  the  nerves,  my  per- 
sonal  vexations  and  cares,  real  or  imaginary,  become  importu- 
nate in  my  thoughts,  and  acquire,  by  morbid  exaggeration,  an 
undue  prominence  and  importance,  what  remedy  then  so  infalli- 
ble as  to  mount  to  my  solitary  seat  in  the  look-out,  and  thence 


54 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


gaze  awhile  across  the  broad  expanse,  till  in  the  presence  of  that 
vast  horizon,  my  proper  troubles  shrink  to  their  true  proportions, 
and  I  look  on  the  whole  race  of  men,  with  their  insignificant  pur- 
suits, as  so  many  shrimpers  !  But  this  is  a  digression — we  have 
made  the  harbor  of  Dundee,  and  it  is  time  to  step  ashore  in 
"  stout  and  original  Scotland,"  as  it  is  called  by  Doctor  Adol- 
phus  Wagner,  in  his  German  edition  of  Burns.* 

Like  other  shipments,  I  had  been  regularly  addressed  to  the 
care  of  a  consignee  ; — but  the  latter,  not  anxious,  probably,  to 
take  charge  of  a  hobbledehoy,  yet  at  the  same  time  unwilling 
to  incur  the  reproach  of  having  a  relative  in  the  same  town  and 
not  under  the  same  roof,  peremptorily  declined  the  office.  Nay, 
more,  she  pronounced  against  me  a  capital  sentence,  so  far  as 
returning  to  the  place  from  whence  I  came,  and  even  proceeded 
to  bespeak  my  passage  and  reship  my  luggage.  Judging  from 
such  vigorous  measures  the  temper  of  my  customer,  instead  of 
remonstrating,  I  affected  resignation,  and  went  with  a  grave  face 
through  the  farce  of  a  formal  leave-taking  ;  I  even  went  on 
board,  but  it  was  in  company  with  a  stout  fellow  who  relanded 

*  The  Baron  Dupotet  de  Sennevoy  and  Doctor  Elliotson  will  doubtless  be 
glad  to  be  informed,  that  the  inspired  Scottish  Poet  was  a  believer  in  their 
magnetismal  mysteries — at  least  in  the  article  of  reading  a  book  behind  the 
back.  In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie,  is  the  following  passage  in  proof. 
"  I  have  no  doubt  but  scholarcraft  may  be  caught,  as  a  Scotchman  catches 
the  itch — by  friction.  How  else  can  you  account  for  it  that  born  blockheads, 
by  mere  dint  of  handling  books,  grow  so  wise  that  even  they  themselves  are 
equally  convinced  of,  and  surprised  at  their  own  parts  ?  I  once  carried  that 
philosophy  to  that  degree,  that  in  a  knot  of  country  folks,  who  had  a  library 
amongst  them,  and  who,  to  the  honor  of  their  good  sense,  made  me  facto- 
tum in  the  business ;  one  of  our  members,  a  little  wiselook,  squat,  upright, 
jabbering  body  of  a  tailor,  I  advised  him  instead  of  turning  over  the  leaves, 
to  bind  the  book  on  his  back.  Johnnie  took  the  hint,  and  as  our  meetings 
were  every  fourth  Saturday,  and  Pricklouse  having  a  good  Scots  mile  to 
walk  in  coming,  and  of  course  another  in  returning,  Bodkin  was  sure  to  lay 
his  hand  on  some  heavy  quarto  or  ponderous  folio ;  with  and  under  which, 
wrapt  up  in  his  grey  plaid,  he  grew  wise  as  he  grew  weary  all  the  way  home. 
He  carried  this  so  far,  that  an  old  musty  Hebrew  Concordance,  which  we 
had  in  a  present  from  a  neighboring  priest,  by  mere  dint  of  applying  it  as 
doctors  do  a  blistering  plaster,  between  his  shoulders,  Stitch,  in  a  dozen 
pilgrimages,  acquired  as  much  rational  theology  as  the  said  priest  had  done 
by  forty  years'  perusal  of  its  pages." 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


55 


my  baggage  ;  and  thus,  whilst  my  transporter  imagined,  good 
easy  soul  !  that  the  rejected  article  was  sailing  round  St.  Abb's 
Head,  or  rolling  off  the  Bass,  he  was  actually  safe  and  snug  in 
Dundee,  quietly  laughing  in  his  sleeve  with  the  Law  at  his 
back.  I  have  a  confused  recollection  of  meeting,  some  three 
or  four  days  afterwards,  a  female  cousin  on  her  road  to  school, 
who  at  sight  of  me  turned  suddenly  round,  and  galloped  off  to- 
wards home  with  the  speed  of  a  scared  heifer. 

My  first  concern  was  now  to  look  out  for  some  comfortable 
roof,  under  which  "  for  a  consideration  "  one  would  be  treated  as 
one  of  the  family.  I  entered  accordingly  into  a  treaty  with  a 
respectable  widower,  who  had  no  sons  of  his  own,  but  in  spite  of 
the  most  undeniable  references,  and  a  general  accordance  as  to 
terms,  there  occurred  a  mysterious  hitch  in  the  arrangement, 
arising  from  a  whimsical  prepossession  which  only  came  after- 
wards to  my  knowledge — namely,  that  an  English  laddie,  in- 
stead of  supping  parritch,  would  inevitably  require  a  rump- 
steak  to  his  breakfast !  My  next  essay  was  more  successful ; 
and  ended  in  my  being  regularly  installed  in  a  boarding-house, 
kept  by  a  Scotchwoman,  who  was  not  so  sure  of  my  being  a 
beefeater.  She  was  a  sort  of  widow,  with  a  seafaring  husband 
"  as  good  as  dead,"  and  in  her  appearance  not  unlike  a  personi- 
fication of  rouge  et  noir,  with  her  red  eyes,  her  red  face,  her  yel- 
low teeth,  and  her  black  velvet  cap.  The  first  day  of  my  term 
happened  to  be  also  the  first  day  of  the  new  year,  and  on  step- 
ping from  my  bed- room,  I  encountered  our  Hostess — like  a  witch 
and  her  familiar  spirit — with  a  huge  bottle  of  whiskey  in  one 
hand,  and  a  glass  in  the  other.  It  was  impossible  to  decline  the 
dram  she  pressed  upon  me,  and  very  good  it  proved,  and  un- 
doubtedly strong,  seeing  that  for  some  time  I  could  only  muse 
its  praise  in  expressive  silence,  and  indeed,  I  was  only  able  to 
speak  with  "  a  small  still  voice  "  for  several  minutes  afterwards. 
Such  was  my  characteristic  introduction  to  the  Land  of  Cakes, 
where  I  was  destined  to  spend  the  greater  part  of  two  years, 
under  circumstances  likely  to  materially  influence  the  coloring 
and  filling  up  of  my  future  life. 

To  properly  estimate  the  dangers  of  my  position,  imagine  a 
boy  of  fifteen,  at  the  Nore,  as  it  were,  of  life,  thus  left  depend- 


56  PROSE  AND  VERSE. 

ent  on  his  own  pilotage  for  a  safe  voyage  to  the  Isle  of  Man  :  or 
conceive  a  juvenile  Telemachus,  without  a  Mentor,  brought  sud- 
denly into  the  perilous  neighborhood  of  Calypso  and  her  en- 
chantments. It  will  hardly  be  expected,  that  from  some  half- 
dozen  of  young  bachelors,  there  came  forth  any  solemn  voice 
didactically  warning  me  in  the  strain  of  the  sage  Imlac  to  the 
Prince  of  Abyssinia.  In  fact,  I  recollect  receiving  but  one  soli- 
tary serious  admonition,  and  that  was  from  a  she  cousin  of  ten 
years  old,  that  the  Spectator  I  was  reading  on  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing, "  was  not  the  Bible."  For  there  was  still  it  uch  of  this  pious 
rigor  extant  in  Scotland,  though  a  gentleman  was  no  longer 
committed  to  Tolboothia  Infelix,  for  an  unseasonable  promenade 
during  church  time.  It  was  once,  however,  my  fortune  to  wit- 
ness a  sample  of  the  ancien  regime  at  an  evening  party  com- 
posed chiefly  of  young  and  rather  fashionable  persons,  when 
lo  !  like  an  Anachronism  confounding  times  past  with  times 
present,  there  came  out  of  some  corner  an  antique  figure,  with 
quaintly  cut  blue  suit  and  three-cornered  hat,  not  unlike  a  very 
old  Greenwich  Pensioner,  who  taking  his  stand  in  front  of  the 
circle,  deliberately  asked  a  blessing  of  formidable  length  on 
the  thin  bread  and  butter,  the  short  cake,  the  marmalade,  and 
the  Pekoe  tea.  And  here,  en  passant,  it  may  be  worth  while 
to  remark,  for  the  benefit  of  our  Agnews  and  Plumtres,  as  illus- 
trating the  intrinsic  value  of  such  sanctimonious  pretension,  that 
the  elder  Scotland,  so  renowned  for  armlong  graces,  and  redun- 
dant preachments,  and  abundant  psalm-singing,  has  yet  be- 
queathed to  posterity  a  singularly  liberal  collection  of  songs, 
the  reverse  of  Divine  and  Moral,  such  as  "  can  only  be  sung 
when  the  punch-bowl  has  done  its  work  and  the  wild  wit  is  set 
free."  * 

To  return  to  my  boarding-house,  which,  with  all  its  chairs, 
had  none  appropriated  to  a  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy.  In 
the  absence  of  such  a  monitor,  nature,  fortunately  for  myself, 
had  gifted  me  with  a  taste  for  reading,  which  the  languor  of  ill- 
health,  inclining  me  to  sedentary  habits,  helped  materially  to 
encourage.    Whatever  books,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  happen 


*  A.  Cunningham, 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


57 


ed  to  come  within  my  reach,  were  perused  with  the  greatest 
avidity,  and  however  indiscriminate  the  course,  the  balance  of 
the  impressions  thence  derived  was  decidedly  in  favor  of  the 
allegorical  lady,  so  wisely  preferred  by  Hercules  when  he  had 
to  make  his  election  between  Virtue  and  Vice.  Of  the  mate- 
rial that  ministered  to  this  appetite,  I  shall  always  regret  that  I 
did  not  secure,  as  a  literary  curiosity — a  collection  of  halfpenny 
Ballads,  the  property  of  a  Grocer's  apprentice,  and  which  con- 
tained, amongst  other  matters,  a  new  version  of  Chevy  Chase, 
wTherein  the  victory  was  transferred  to  the  Scots.  In  the  mean 
time,  this  bookishness  acquired  for  me  a  sort  of  reputation  for 
scholarship  amongst  my  comrades,  and  in  consequence  my  pen 
was  sometimes  called  into  requisition,  in  divers  and  sometimes 
delicate  cases.  Thus  for  one  party,  whom  the  Gods  had  not 
made  poetical,  I  composed  a  love-letter  in  verse  ;  for  another, 
whose  education  had  been  neglected,  I  carried  on  a  correspon- 
dence with  reference  to  a  tobacco  manufactory  in  which  he  was 
a  sleeping-partner  ;  whilst,  on  a  graver  occasion,  the  hand  now 
peacefully  setting  down  these  reminiscences,  was  employed  in 
oenning  a  most  horrible  peremptory  invitation  to  pistols  and 
twelve  paces,  till  one  was  nicked.  The  facts  were  briefly  these. 
A  spicy-tempered  captain  of  Artillery,  in  a  dispute  with  a  su- 
perior officer,  had  rashly  cashiered  himself  by  either  throwing 
up  or  tearing  up  his  commission.  In  this  dilemma  he  arrived 
at  Dundee,  to  assume  a  post  in  the  Customs,  which  had  been  pro- 
cured for  him  by  the  interest  of  his  friends.  To  his  infinite  in- 
dignation, however,  he  found  that  instead  of  a  lucrative  survey- 
orship.  he  had  been  appointed  a  simple  tide-waiter  !  and  magni- 
ficent was  the  rage  with  which  he  tore,  trampled,  and  danced  on 
the  little  official  paper  book  wherein  he  had  been  set  to  tick  off, 
bale  by  bale,  a  cargo  of  "  infernal  hemp."  Unluckily,  on  the 
very  day  of  this  revelation,  a  forgery  was  perpetrated  on  the 
local  Bank,  and  those  sapient  Dogberries,  the  town  officers,  saw 
fit  to  take  up  our  persecuted  ex-captain,  on  the  simple  ground 
that  he  was  the  last  stranger  who  had  entered  the  town.  Ren- 
dered almost  frantic  by  this  second  insult,  nothing  would  serve 
him  in  his  paroxysm  but  calling  somebody  out,  and  he  pitched 
at  once  on  the  cashier  of  the  defrauded  Bank.    As  the  state  of 


58 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


his  nerves  would  not  permit  him  to  write,  he  entreated  me  earn 
estly  to  draw  up  a  defiance,  which  I  performed,  at  the  expense 
of  an  agony  of  suppressed  laughter,  merely  to  imagine  the  ef- 
fect of  such  a  missive  on  the  man  of  business — a  respectable 
powdered,  bald,  pudgy,  pacific  little  body,  with  no  more  idea  of 
"  going  out"  than  a  cow  in  a  field  of  olover.  I  forget  the  pre- 
cise result — but  certainly  there  was  no  duel. 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


59 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


No  II. 


To  do  justice  to  the  climate  of  "  stout  and  original  Scotland,"  it 
promised  to  act  kindly  by  the  constitution  committed  to  its  care. 
The  air  evidently  agreed  with  the  natives ;  and  auld  Robin 
Grays  and  John  Andersons  were  plenty  as  blackberries,  and 
Auld  Lang  Syne  himself  seemed  to  walk  bonneted  amongst 
these  patriarchal  figures  in  the  likeness  of  an  old  man  covered 
with  a  mantle.  The  effect  on  myself  was  rather  curious — for  I 
seemed  to  have  come  amongst  a  generation  that  scarcely  belonged- 
to  my  era  ;  mature  spinsters,  waning  bachelors,  very  motherly 
matrons,  and  experienced  fathers,  that  I  should  have  set  down 
as  uncles  and  aunts,  called  themselves  my  cousins  ;  reverend 
personages,  apparently  grandfathers  and  grandmothers,  were 
simply  great  uncles  and  aunts  :  and  finally  I  enjoyed  an  inter- 
view with  a  relative  oftener  heard  of  traditionally,  than  encoun- 
tered in  the  body — a  great-great-grandmother — still  a  tall 
woman  and  a  tolerable  pedestrian,  going  indeed  down  the  hill, 
but  with  the  wheel  well  locked.  It  was  like  coming  amongst 
the  Struldbrugs  ;  and  truly,  for  any  knowledge  to  the  contrary, 
many  of  these  Old  Mortalities  are  still  living,  enjoying  their 
sneeshing,  their  toddy,  their  cracks,  and  particular  reminiscen- 
ces. The  very  phrase  of  being  "  Scotch'd,  but  not  killed,"  seems 
to  refer  to  this  Caledonian  tenacity  of  life,  of  which  the  well- 
known  Walking  Stewart  was  an  example  :  he  was  an  annuitant, 
in  the  County-office,  and  as  the  actuaries  would  say,  died  very 
hard.  It  must  be  difficult  for  the  teatotallers  to  reconcile  this 
longevity  with  the  imputed  enormous  consumption  of  ardent 
spirits  beyond  the  Tweed.    Scotia,  according  to  the  evidence  of 


60 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Mr.  Buckingham's  committee,  is  an  especially  drouthie  bodie, 
who  drinks  whiskey  at  christenings,  and  at  buryings,  and  on  all 
possible  occasions  besides.  Her  sons  drink  not  by  the  hour  or 
by  the  day,  but  by  the  week, — witness  Souter  Johnny  : — 

"  Tarn  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither, 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither." 

Swallowing  no  thin  washy  potation,  but  a  strong  overproof  spirit, 
with  a  smack  of  smoke — and  "  where  there  is  smoke  there  is 
fire,"  yet  without  flashing  otf,  according  to  temperance  theories, 
by  spontaneous  combustion.  On  the  contrary,  the  canny  north- 
erns are  noted  for  soundness  of  constitution  and  clearness  of 
head,  with  such  a  strong  principle  of  vitality  as  U  justify  the 
poetical  prediction  of  Q***,  that  the  world's  longest  liver,  or 
Last  Man,  will  be  a  Scotchman. 

All  these  favorable  signs  I  duly  noted  ;  and  prophetically 
refrained  from  delivering  the  letter  of  introduction  to  Doctor 

C  ,  which  was  to  place  me  under  his  medical  care.    As  the 

sick  man  said,  when  he  went  into  the  gin-shop  instead  of  the  hos- 
pital, "  I  trusted  to  natur."  Whenever  the  weather  permitted, 
therefore,  which  was  generally  when  there  were  no  new  books 
to  the  fore,  I  haunted  the  banks  and  braes,  or  paid  flying  visits 
to  the  burns,  with  a  rod  intended  to  punish  that  rising  genera- 
tion amongst  fishes  called  trout.  But  I  whipped  in  vain.  Trout 
there  were  in  plenty,  but  like  obstinate  double  teeth,  with  a  bad 
operator,  they  would  neither  be  pulled  out  nor  come  out  oi 
themselves.  Still  the  sport,  if  so  it  might  be  called,  had  its  own 
attractions,  as,  the  catching  excepted,  the  whole  of  the  Walton- 
ish  enjoyments  were  at  my  command,  the  contemplative  quiet, 
the  sweet  wholesome  country  air,  and  the  picturesque  scenery — 
not  to  forget  the  relishing  the  homely  repast  at  the  shealing  or 
the  mill  ;  sometimes  I  went  alone,  but  often  we  were  a  company, 
and  then  we  had  for  our  attendant  a  journeyman  tobacco-spin- 
ner, an  original,  and  literary  withal,  for  he  had  a  reel  in  his 
head,  whence  ever  and  anon  he  unwound  a  line  of  Allan  Ram- 
say, or  Beattie,  or  Burns.  Methinks  I  still  listen,  trudging 
homeward  in  the  gloaming,  to  the  recitation  of  that  appropriate 
stanza,  beginning — 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


61 


v  At  the  close  of  the  day  when  the  hamlet  was  still," 

delivered  with  a  gusto,  perhaps  only  to  be  felt  by  a  day-laboring 
mechanic,  who  had  "  nothing  but  his  evenings  to  himself." 
Methinks  I  still  sympathize  with  the  zest  with  which  he  dwell 
on  the  pastoral  images  and  dreams  so  rarely  realized,  when  a 
chance  holiday  gave  him  the  fresh-breathing  fragrance  of  the 
living  flower  in  lieu  of  the  stale  odor  of  the  Indian  weed  :  and 
philosophically  I  can  now  understand  why  poetry,  with  its  lofty 
aspirations  and  sublime  feelings,  seemed  to  sound  so  gratefully 
to  the  ear  from  the  lips  of  a  "  squire  of  low  degree."  There  is 
something  painful  and  humiliating  to  humanity  in  the  abjectness 
of  mind,  that  too  often  accompanies  the  sordid  condition  of  the 
working  classes  ;  whereas  it  is  soothing  and  consolatory  to  find 
the  mind  of  the  poor  man  rising  superior  to  his  estate,  and  com- 
pensating by  intellectual  enjoyment  for  the  physical  pains  and 
privation  that  belong  to  his  humble  lot.  Whatever  raises  him 
above  the  level  of  the  ox  in  the  garner,  or  the  horse  in  the  mill, 
ought  to  be  acceptable  to  the  pride,  if  not  to  the  charity,  of  the 
fellow  creature  that  calls  him  brother  ;  for  instance  music  and 
dancing,  but  against  which  innocent  unbendings  some  of  our 
magistracy  persist  in  setting  their  faces,  as  if  resolved  that  a  low 
neighborhood  should  enjoy  no  dance  but  St.  Vitus's,  and  no  fid- 
dle but  the  Scotch. 

To  these  open-air  pursuits,  sailing  was  afterwards  added, 
bringing  me  acquainted  with  the  boatmen  and  fishermen  of  The 
Craig,  a  hardy  race,  rough  and  ready-witted,  from  whom  per- 
chance was  first  derived  my  partiality  for  all  marine  bipeds  and  . 
sea-craft,  from  Flag  Admirals  down  to  Jack  Junk,  the  proud 
first-rate  to  the  humble  boatie  that  "  wins  the  bairns'  bread." 
The  Tay  at  Dundee  is  a  broad  noble  river,  with  a  raging 
tide,  which,  when  it  differs  with  a  contrary  wind,  will  get  up 
"jars  "  (Anglice  waves)  quite  equal  to  those  of  a  family  manu 
facture.  It  was  at  least  a  good  preparatory  school  for  learning 
the  rudiments  of  boat  craft ;  whereof  I  acquired  enough  to  be 
able  at  need  to  take  the  helm  without  either  going  too  near  the 
wind  or  too  distant  from  the  port.  Not  without  some  boyish 
pride  I  occasionally  found  myself  intrusted  with  the  guidance  of 


62 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


the  Coach-Boat, — so  called  from  its  carrying  the  passengers  by 
the  Edinburgh  Mail — particularly  in  a  calm,  when  the  utmost 
exertions  of  the  crew,  four  old  man-of-war's-men,  were  required 
at  the  oars.  It  not  unfrequently  happened,  however,  that  "  the 
laddie  "  was  unceremoniously  ousted  by  the  unanimous  vote, 
and  sometimes  by  the  united  strength,  of  the  ladies,  who  invari- 
ably pitched  upon  the  oldest  old  gentleman  in  the  vessel  to 

Steer  her  up  and  haud  her  gaun  " 

The  consequence  being  the  landing  with  all  the  baggage,  some 
mile  above  or  below  the  town — and  a  too  late  conviction,  that 
the  Elder  Brethren  of  our  Trinity  House  were  not  the  best 
Pilots. 

It  was  during  one  of  these  brief  voyages,  that  I  witnessed  a 
serio-comic  accident,  at  which  the  reader  will  smile  or  sigh  ac- 
cording to  his  connexion  with  the  Corporation  of  London.  1 
forget  on  what  unconscious  pilgrimage  it  was  bound,  but  amongst 
the  other  passengers  one  day,  there  was  that  stock-dove  of  a 
gourmand's  affection,  a  fine  lively  turtle.  Rich  and  rare  as  it 
was,  it  did  not  travel  unprotected  like  Moore's  heroine,  but  was 
under  the  care  of  a  vigilant  guardian,  who  seemed  as  jealous  of 
the  eyes  that  looked  amorously  at  his  charge,  as  if  the  latter  had 
been  a  ward  in  Chancery.  So  far — namely,  as  far  as  the  mid- 
dle of  the  Tay — so  good  ;  when  the  spirit  of  mischief,  or  curi- 
osity, or  humanity,  suggested  the  convenience  of  a  sea-bath,  and 
the  refreshment  the  creature  might  derive  from  a  taste  of  its 
native  element.  Accordingly,  Testudo  was  lifted  over  the  side, 
and  indulged  with  a  dip  and  a  wallop  in  the  wave,  which  actu- 
ally revived  it  so  powerfully,  that  from  a  playful  flapping  with 
its  fore-fins  it  soon  began  to  struggle  most  vigorously,  like  a  giant 
refreshed  with  brine.  In  fact,  it  paddled  with  a  power  which, 
added  to  its  weight,  left  no  alternative  to  its  guardian  but  to  go 
with  it,  or  without  it.  The  event  soon  came  off.  The  man 
tumbled  backward  into  the  boat,  and  the  turtle  plunged  forward 
into  the  deep.  There  was  a  splash — a  momentary  glimpse  of 
the  broad  back-shell — the  waters  closed,  and  all  was  over — or 
at  least  under !    In  vain  one  of  the  boatmen  aimed  a  lunge  with 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


63 


his  boat-hook,  at  the  fatal  spot  in  particular — in  vain  another 
made  a  blow  with  his  oar  at  the  Tay  in  general — whilst  a  third, 
in  his  confusion,  heaved  a  coil  of  rope,  as  he  would,  could, 
should,  might,  or  ought  to  have  done  to  a  drowning  Christian. 
The  Amphibious  was  beyond  their  reach,  and  no  doubt,  making 
westward  and  homeward  with  all  its  might,  with  an  instinctive 
feeling  that 

"  The  world  was  all  before  it  where  to  choose 
Its  place  of  rest,  and  Providence  its  guide." 

Never  shall  I  forget,  whilst  capable  of  reminiscences,  the  face 
of  that  mourning  mate  thus  suddenly  bereaved  of  his  turtle ! 
The  unfortunate  shepherd,  Ding-dong,  in  Rabelais,  could  hardly 
have  looked  more  utterly  and  unutterably  dozed,  crazed,  miz- 
mazed,  and  flabbergasted,  when  his  whole  flock  and  stock  of 
golden-fleeced  sheep  suicidally  sheepwashed  themselves  to  death, 
by  wilfully  leaping  overboard  !  He  said  little  in  words,  but 
more  eloquently  clapped  his  hands  to  his  waistcoat,  as  if  the  loss, 
as  the  nurses  say,  had  literally  "  flown  to  his  stomach."  And 
truly,  after  promising  it  both  callipash  and  callipee,  with  the 
delicious  green  fat  to  boot,  what  cold  comfort  could  well  be 
colder  than  the  miserable  chilling  reflection  that  there  was 

"  Cauld  kail  in  Aberdeen  ?" 


64 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


IITERAR1  REMINISCENCES 


No.  III. 


My  first  acquaintance  with  the  press — a  memorable  event  in  an 
author's  experience — took  place  in  Scotland.  Amongst  the  tem- 
porary sojourners  at  our  boarding-house,  there  came  a  legal 
antiquarian  who  had  been  sent  for  from  Edinburgh,  expressly  to 
make  some  unprofitable  researches  amongst  the  mustiest  of  the 
civic  records.  It  was  my  humor  to  think,  that  in  Political  as 
well  as  Domestic  Economy,  it  must  be  better  to  sweep  the  Present 
than  to  dust  the  Past ;  and  certain  new  brooms  were  recom- 
mended to  the  Town  Council  in  a  quizzing  letter,  which  the  then 
editor  of  the  Dundee  Advertiser  or  Chronicle  thought  fit  to  favor 
with  a  prominent  place  in  his  columns.  "  'Tis  pleasant  sure," 
sings  Lord  Byron,  "to  see  one's  self  in  print,"  and  according  to 
the  popular  notion  I  ought  to  have  been  quite  up  in  my  stirrups, 
if  not  standing  on  the  saddle,  at  thus  seeing  myself,  for  the  first 
strange  time,  set  up  in  type.  Memory  recalls,  however,  but  a 
very  moderate  share  of  exaltation,  which  was  totally  eclipsed, 
moreover,  by  the  exuberant  transports  of  an  accessary  before 
the  fact,  whom,  methinks,  I  still  see  in  my  mind's  eye,  rushing 
out  of  the  printing-office  with  the  wet  sheet  steaming  in  his  hand, 
and  fluttering  all  along  the  High  Street,  to  announce  breath- 
lessly that  "  we  were  in."  But  G.  was  an  indifferent  scholar, 
even  in  English,  and  therefore  thought  the  more  highly  of  this 
literary  feat.  It  was  this  defective  education,  and  the  want  of 
a  proper  vent  for  his  abundant  love  of  nonsense  in  prose  or  verse, 
that  probably  led  to  the  wound  he  subsequently  inflicted  on  his 
own  throat,  but  which  was  luckily  remedied  by  "  a  stitch  in 
time."    The  failure  of  a  tragedy  is  very  apt  to  produce  some 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


89 


thing  like  a  comedy,  and  few  afterpieces  have  amused  me  more 
than  the  behavior  of  this  Amicus  Redivivus,  when,  thus  drama- 
tising  the  saying  of  "  cut  and  come  again,"  he  made  what  ought 
to  have  been  a  posthumous  appearance  amongst  his  friends.  In 
fact,  and  he  was  ludicrously  alive  to  it,  he  had  placed  himself 
for  all  his  supplementary  days  in  a  false  position.  Like  the  old 
man  in  the  fable,  after  formally  calling  upon  Death  to  execute 
a  general  release,  he  had  quietly  resumed  his  fardel,  which  he 
bore  about  with  exactly  the  uneasy  ridiculous  air  of  a  would-be 
fine  gentleman,  who  is  sensitively  conscious  that  he  is  carrying 
a  bundle.  For  the  sake  of  our  native  sentimentalists  who  pro- 
fess dying  for  love,  as  well  as  the  foreign  romanticists  who  affect 
a  love  for  dying,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  give  a  slight  sketch  of 
the  bearing  of  a  traveller  who  had  gone  through  half  the  jour- 
ney. I  had  been  absent  some  months,  and  was  consequently 
ignorant  of  the  affair,  when  lo  !  on  my  return  to  the  town,  the 
very  first  person  who  accosted  me  in  the  market-place  was  our 
felo-de-se ;  and  truly,  no  Bashful  Man,  "  with  all  his  blushing 
honors  thick  upon  him,"  in  the  presence  of  a  damp  stranger, 
could  have  been  more  divertingly  sheepish,  and  awkwardly 
backward  in  coming  forward  as  to  manner  and  address.  Indeed, 
something  of  the  embarrassment  of  a  fresh  introduction  might 
naturally  be  felt  by  an  individual,  thus  beginning  again,  as  the 
lawyers  say,  de  novo,  and  renewing  ties  he  had  virtually  cast 
off.  The  guilty  hand  was  as  dubiously  extended  to  me  as  if  it 
had  been  a  dyer's, — its  fellow  meanwhile  performing  sundry 
involuntary  motions  and  manipulations  about  his  cravat,  as  if 
nervously  mistrusting  the  correctness  of  the  ties  or  the  stability 
of  a  buckle.  As  for  his  face,  there  was  a  foolish,  deprecatory 
smile  upon  it  that  would  have  puzzled  the  pencil  of  Wilkie ; 
and  even  Liston  himself  could  scarcely  have  parodied  the  inde- 
scribable croak  with  which,  conscious  of  an  unlucky  notoriety, 
he  inquired  "  if  I  had  heard  " — here,  a  short  husky  cough — "  of 
anything  particular  ?" 

"  Not  a  word,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Then  you  don't  know  " — (more  fidgetting  about  the  neck, 
the  smile  rather  sillier,  the  voice  more  guttural,  and  the  cough 
worse  than  ever) — "  then  you  don't  know" — but,  like  Macbeth's 
6 


66 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


amen,  the  confession  literally  stuck  in  the  culprit's  throat ;  and 
I  was  left  to  learn,  an  hour  afterwards,  and  from  another  source, 
that  "  Jemmy  G  *  *  *  had  fought  a  duel  with  himself,  and  cut 
his  own  weazand,  about  a  lady." 

For  my  own  part,  with  the  above  figure,  and  all  its  foolish 
features  vividly  imprinted  on  my  memory,  I  do  not  think  that  I 
jould  ever  seriously  attempt  "  what  Cato  did,  and  Addison  ap- 
proved," in  my  own  person.  On  the  contrary,  it  seems  to  me 
that  the  English  moralist  gave  but  an  Irish  illustration  of  "  a 
brave  man  struggling  with  the  storms  of  fate,"  by  xepresent- 
ing  him  as  wilfully  scuttling  his  own  hold,  and  going  at  once 
to  the  bottom.  As  for  the  Censor,  he  plainly  laid  himself  open 
to  censure,  when  he  used  a  naked  sword  as  a  stomachic — a  very 
sorry  way,  by  the  way,  when  weary  of  conjectures,  of  enjoying 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  and  for  which,  were  I  tasked  to  select 
an  inscription  for  his  cenotaph,  it  should  be  the  exclamation  of 
Thisby,  in  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream — 

"  This  is  old  Ninny's  tomb." 

Mais  revenons  a  nos  moutons,  as  the  wolf  said  to  her  cubs. 
The  reception  of  my  letter  in  the  Dublin  Newspaper  encouraged 
me  to  forward  a  contribution  to  the  Dundee  Magazine,  the  Edi- 
tor of  which  was  kind  enough,  as  Winifred  Jenkins  says,  to 
"  wrap  my  bit  of  nonsense  under  his  Honor's  Kiver,"  without 
charging  anything  for  its  insertion.  Here  was  success  sufficient 
to  turn  a  young  author  at  once  into  "  a  scribbling  miller,"  and 
make  him  sell  himself,  body  and  soul,  after  the  German  fashion, 
to  that  minor  Mephistophiles,  the  Printer's  Devil !  Neverthe- 
less, it  was  not  till  years  afterwards,  and  the  lapse  of  term  equal 
to  an  ordinary  apprenticeship,  that  the  Imp  in  question  became 
really  my  Familiar.  In  the  meantime,  I  continued  to  compose 
occasionally,  and,  like  the  literary  performances  of  Mr.  Weller 
Senior,  my  lucubrations  were  generally  committed  to  paper, 
not  in  what  is  commonly  called  written  hand,  but  an  imitation 
of  print.  Such  a  course  hints  suspiciously  of  type  and  ante- 
type,  and  a  longing  eye  to  the  Row,  whereas,  it  was  adopted 
simply  to  make  the  reading  more  easy,  and  thus  enable  me  the 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


07 


more  readily  to  form  a  judgment  of  the  effect  of  my  little  efforts. 
It  is  more  difficult  than  may  be  supposed  to  decide  on  the  value 
of  a  work  in  MS.,  and  especially  when  the  handwriting  pre- 
sents only  a  swell  mob  of  bad  characters,  that  must  be  severally 
examined  and  re-examined  to  arrive  at  the  merits  or  demerits 
of  the  case.  Print  settles  it,  as  Coleridge  used  to  say  :  and  to 
be  candid,  I  have  more  than  once  reversed,  or  greatly  modified 
a  previous  verdict,  on  seeing  a  rough  proof  from  the  press.  But, 
as  Editors  too  well  know,  it  is  next  to  impossible  to  retain  the 
tune  of  a  stanza,  or  the  drift  of  an  argument,  whilst  the  mind 
has  to  scramble  through  a  patch  of  scribble  scrabble,  as  stiff  as 
a  gorse  cover.  The  beauties  of  the  piece  will  as  naturally  ap- 
pear to  disadvantage  through  such  a  medium,  as  the  features 
of  a  pretty  woman  through  a  bad  pane  of  glass  ;  and  without 
doubt,  many  a  tolerable  article  has  been  consigned  hand  over 
head  to  the  Balaam  Box  for  want  of  a  fair  copy.  Wherefore, 
O  ye  Poets  and  Prosers,  who  aspire  to  write  in  Miscellanies,  and 
above  all,  O  ye  palpitating  Untried,  who  meditate  the  offer  of 
your  maiden  essays  to  established  periodicals,  take  care,  pray 
ye  take  care,  to  cultivate  a  good,  plain,  bold,  round  text.  Set 
up  Tomkins  as  well  as  Pope  or  Dryden  for  a  model,  and  have 
an  eye  to  your  pothooks.  Some  persons  hold  that  the  best 
writers  are  those  who  write  the  best  hands,  and  I  have  known 
the  conductor  of  a  magazine  to  be  converted  by  a  crabbed  MS. 
to  the  same  opinion.  Of  all  things,  therefore,  be  legible  ;  and 
to  that  end,  practise  in  penmanship.  If  you  have  never  learned, 
take  six  lessons  of  Mr.  Carstairs.  Be  sure  to  buy  the  best  pa- 
per, the  best  ink,  the  best  pens,  and  then  sit  down  and  do  the 
best  you  can  ;  as  the  schoolboys  do — put  out  your  tongue,  and 
take  pains.  So  shall  ye  haply  escape  the  rash  rejection  of  a 
jaded  editor ;  so,  having  got  in  your  hand,  it  is  possible  that 
your  head  may  follow  ;  and  so,  last  not  least,  ye  may  fortu- 
nately avert  those  awful  mistakes  of  the  press  which  sometimes 
j'uin  a  poet's  sublimest  effusion,  by  pantomimically  transforming 
his  roses  into  noses,  his  angels  into  angles,  and  all  his  happi- 
ness into  pappiness. 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 

No.  IV. 


"  And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? 
And  are  ye  sure  he's  well  ?" — Old  Scotch  Song. 

The  great  Doctor  Johnson — himself  a  sufferer — has  pathetically 
described,  in  an  essay  on  the  miseries  of  an  infirm  constitution, 
the  melancholy  case  of  an  Invalid,  with  a  willing  mind  in  a 
weak  body.  "  The  time  of  such  a  man,"  he  says,  "is  spent  in 
forming  schemes  which  a  change  of  wind  prevents  him  from 
executing  ;  his  powers  fume  away  in  projects  and  in  hope,  and 
the  day  of  action  never  arrives.  He  lies  down  delighted  with 
the  thoughts  of  to-morrow  ;  but  in  the  night  the  skies  are  over- 
cast ;  the  temper  of  the  air  is  changed  ;  he  wakes  in  languor, 
impatience,  and  distraction;  and  has  no  longer  any  wish  but  for 
ease,  nor  any  attention  but  for  misery."  In  short  the  Rambler 
describes  the  whole  race  of  Valetudinarians  as  a  sort  of  great 
Bitumen  Company,  paving  a  certain  nameless  place,  as  some  of 
the  Asphalticals  have  paved  Oxford  Street,  with  not  very  dura- 
ble good  intentions.  In  a  word,  your  Invalid  promises  like  a 
Hogmy,  and  performs  like  a  Pigmy. 

To  a  hale  hearty  man,  a  perfect  picture  of  health  in  an  oaken 
frame,  such  abortions  seem  sufficiently  unaccountable.  A  great 
hulking  fellow,  revelling,  as  De  Quincey  used  emphatically  to 
say,  "  in  rude  bovine  health," — a  voracious  human  animal, 
camel-stomached  and  iron-built,  who  could  all  but  devour  and 
digest  himself  like  a  Kilkenny  cat, — can  neither  sympathize  with 
nor  understand  those  frequent  failures  and  down-breakings  which 
happen  to  beings  not  so  fortunately  gifted  with  indelicate  consti 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


60 


tutions.  Such  a  half-horse  half-alligator  monster  cannot  judge, 
like  a  Puny  Judge,  of  a  case  of  feebleness.  The  broad-chested 
cannot  allow  for  the  narrow-breasted  ;  the  robust  for  the  no-bust. 
Nevertheless,  even  the  stalwart  may  sometimes  fall  egregiously 
short  of  their  own  designs — as  witness  a  case  in  point. 

Amongst  my  fellow  passengers,  on  a  late  sea  voyage,  there 
was  one  who  attracted  my  especial  attention.  A  glance  at  his 
face,  another  at  his  figure,  a  third  at  his  covftume,  and  a  fourth 
at  his  paraphernalia,  sufficed  to  detect  his  country  :  by  his  light 
hair,  nubbly  features,  heavy  frame,  odd-colored  dressing-gown, 
and  the  national  meerschaum  and  gaudy  tobacco-bag,  he  was 
undeniably  a  German.  But,  besides  the  everlasting  pipe,  he 
was  provided  with  a  sketching  apparatus,  an  ample  note-book,  a 
gun,  and  a  telescope ;  the  whole  being  placed  ready  for  imme- 
diate use.  He  had  predetermined,  no  doubt,  to  record  his  Ger- 
man sentiments  on  first  making  acquaintance  with  the  German 
Ocean ;  to  sketch  the  picturesque  craft  he  might  encounter  on 
its  surface  ;  to  shoot  his  first  sea-gull  ;  and  to  catch  a  first 
glimpse  of  the  shores  of  Albion,  beyond  the  reach  of  the  naked 
eye.  But  alas  !  all  these  intentions  fell — if  one  may  cor- 
rectly say  so  with  only  sky  and  water — to  the  ground.  He  ate 
nothing — drank  nothing — smoked  nothing — drew  nothing — wrote 
nothing — shot  nothing — spied  nothing — nay  he  merely  stared, 
but  replied  nothing  to  my  friendly  inquiry  (I  am  ill  at  the  Ger- 
man tongue  and  its  pronunciation),  "  Wie  befinden  sea  sick  V 

Now,  my  own  case,  gentle  reader,  has  been  precisely  akin  to 
that  of  our  unfortunate  Cousin  German.  Like  him  I  have  pro- 
mised much,  projected  still  more,  and  done  little.  Like  him, 
too,  I  have  been  a  sick  man,  though  not  at  sea,  but  on  shore — 
and  in  excuse  of  all  that  has  been  left  undone,  or  delayed,  with 
other  Performers,  when  they  do  not  perform,  I  must  proffer  the 
old  theatrical  plea  of  indisposition.  As  the  Rambler  describes, 
I  have  erected  schemes  which  have  been  blown  down  by  an 
ill  wind  ;  I  have  formed  plans  and  been  weather-beaten,  like 
another  Murphy,  by  a  change  in  the  weather.  For  instance,  the 
Comic  Annual  for  1839  ought  properly  to  have  been  published 
some  forty  days  earlier ;  but  was  obliged,  as  it  were,  to  perform 
quarantine,  for  want  of  a  clean  Bill  of  Health.    Thus,  too,  the 


70 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


patron  of  the  present  Work,  who  has  taken  the  trouble  to  peruse 
certain  chapters  under  the  title  of  Literary  Reminiscences,  will 
doubtless  have  compared  the  tone  of  them  with  an  Apology  in 
Number  Six,  wherein,  declining  any  attempt  at  an  Auto-biogra- 
phy, a  promise  was  made  of  giving  such  anecdotes  as  a  bad 
memory  and  a  bad  hearing  might  have  retained  of  my  literary 
friends  and  acquaintance.  Hitherto,  however,  the  fragments  in 
question  have  only  presented  desultory  glimpses  of  a  goose-quill 
still  in  its  green-gosling-hood,  instead  of  any  recollections  of  "cele- 
brated pens."  The  truth  is  that  my  malady  forced  me  to  tempo 
rise : — wherefore  the  kind  reader  will  be  pleased  to  consider  the 
aforesaid  chapters  but  as  so  many  "  false  starts,"  and  that 
Memory  has  only  now  got  away,  to  make  play  as  well  as  she  can. 

Whilst  I  am  thus  closeted  in  the  Confessional,  it  may  be  as 
well,  as  the  Pelican  said,  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  at 
once  plead  guilty  to  all  those  counts — and  some,  from  long-stand- 
ing, have  become  very  Old  Baily  counts — that  haunt  my  con- 
science. The  most  numerous  of  these  crimes  relate  to  letters 
that  would  not,  could  not,  or  at  least  did  not  answer.  Others 
refer  to  the  receipt  of  books,  and,  as  an  example  of  their  hein- 
ousness,  it  misgives  me  that  I  was  favored  with  a  little  volume 
by  W.  and  M.  Howitt,  without  ever  telling  them  how-it  pleased 
me.  A  few  offences  concern  engagements  which  it  was  impos- 
sible to  fulfil,  although  doubly  bound  by  principle  and  interest. 
Seriously  I  have  perforce  been  guilty  of  many,  many,  and  still 
many  sins  of  omission ;  but  Hope,  reviving  with  my  strength, 
promises,  granting  me  life,  to  redeem  all  such  pledges.  In  the 
meantime,  in  extenuation,  I  can  only  plead  particularly  that 
deprecation  which  is  offered  up,  in  behalf  of  all  Christian  default- 
ers every  Sunday, — "  We  have  left  undone  those  things  which 
we  ought  to  have  done, — And  there  is  no  Health  in  us." 

It  is  pleasant  after  a  match  at  Chess,  particularly  if  we  have 
won,  to  try  back,  and  reconsider  those  important  moves  which 
have  had  a  decisive  influence  on  the  result.  It  is  still  more 
interesting,  in  the  game  of  Life,  to  recal  the  critical  positions 
which  have  occurred  during  its  progress,  and  review  the  false  or 
judicious  steps  that  have  led  to  our  subsequent  good  or  ill  for- 
tune.   There  is,  however,  this  difference,  that  chess  is  a  matter 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


71 


of  pure  skill  and  calculation,  whereas  the  chequered  board  of 
human  life  is  subject  to  the  caprice  of  Chance — the  event  being 
sometimes  determined  by  combinations  which  never  entered  into 
the  mind  of  the  player.*  To  such  an  accident  it  is,  perhaps, 
attributable,  that  the  hand  now  tracing  these  reminiscences  is 
holding  a  pen  instead  of  an  etching-point :  jotting  down  these 
prose  pleasures  of  memory,  in  lieu  of  furnisiiing  articles  "  plated 
on  steel,"  for  the  pictorial  periodicals. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  my  mental  constitution,  however 
weak  my  physical  one,  was  proof  against  that  type-us  fever 
which  parches  most  scribblers  till  they  are  set  up,  done  up, 
and  may  be,  cut  up,  in  print  and  boards.  Perhaps  I  had  read, 
and  trembled  at  the  melancholy  annals  of  those  unfortunates, 
who,  rashly  undertaking  to  write  for  bread,  had  poisoned  them- 
selves, like  Chatterton,  for  want  of  it,  or  choked  themselves,  like 
Otway,  on  obtaining  it.  Possibly,  having  learned  to  think  hum- 
bly of  myself — there  is  nothing  like  early  sickness  and  sorrow 
for  "taking  the  conceit"  out  of  one — my  vanity  did  not  pre- 
sume to  think,  with  certain  juvenile  Tracticians,  that  I  "  had  a 
call  "  to  hold  forth  in  print  for  the  edification  of  mankind.  Per- 
chance, the  very  deep  reverence  my  reading  had  led  me  to 
entertain  for  our  Bards  and  Sages,  deterred  me  from  thrusting 
myself  into  the  fellowship  of  Beings  that  seemed  only  a  little 
lower  than  the  angels.  However,  in  spite  of  that  very  common 
excuse  for  publication,  "  the  advice  of  a  friend,"  who  seriously 
recommended  the  submitting  of  my  MSS.  to  a  literary  authority, 
with  a  view  to  his  imprimatur,  my  slight  acquaintance  with  the 
press  was  pushed  no  farther.  On  the  contrary,  I  had  selected  a 
branch  of  the  Fine  Arts  for  my  serious  pursuit.  Prudence,  the 
daughter  of  Wisdom,  whispering,  perhaps,  that  the  engraver, 
Pye,  had  a  better  chance  of  beef-steak  inside,  than  Pye  the 
Laureate ;   not  that  the  verse-spinning  was  quite  given  up. 

*  To  borrow  an  example  from  fiction,  there  is  that  slave  of  circumstances, 
Oliver  Twist.  There  are  few  authors  whom  one  would  care  to  see  running 
two  heats  with  the  same  J*orse.  It  is  intended,  therefore,  as  a  compliment, 
that  I  wish  Boz  would  re-write  the  history  in  question  from  page  122,  sup- 
posing his  hero  not  to  have  met  with  the  Artful  Dodger  on  his  road  to  seek 
his  fortune. 


72 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Though  working  in  aqua  fords,  I  still  played  with  Castaly, 
now  writing  —  all  monkeys  are  imitators,  and  all  young 
authors  are  monkeys  —  now  writing  a  Bandit,  to  match  the 
Corsair,  and  anon,  hatching  a  Lalla  Crow,  by  way  of  com- 
panion  to  Lalla  Rookh.  Moreover,  about  this  time,  I  became 
a  member  of  a  private  select  Literary  Society  that  "  waited 
on  Ladies  and  Gentlemen  at  their  own  houses."  Our  Miner- 
va, allegorically  speaking,  was  a  motley  personage,  in-  blue 
stockings,  a  flounced  gown,  quaker  cap  and  kerchief,  French 
flowers,  and  a  man's  hat.  She  held  a  fan  in  one  hand  and  a 
blowpipe  in  the  other.  Her  votaries  were  of  both  sexes,  old  and 
young,  married  and  single,  assenters,  dissenters,  High  Church, 
Low  Church,  No  Church  5  Doctors  in  Physics,  and  Apotheca- 
ries in  Metaphysics ;  dabblers  in  Logic,  Chemistry,  Casuistry, 
Sophistry,  natural  and  unnatural  History,  Phrenology,  Geology, 
Conchology,  Demonology;  in  short,  all  kinds  of  Colledgy-Know- 
ledgy-Ology,  including  "  Cakeology,"  and  tea  and  coffee.  Like 
other  Societies,  we  had  our  President — a  sort  of  Speaker  who 
never  spoke ;  at  least  within  my  experience  he  never  unbosomed 
himself  of  anything  but  a  portentous  shirt  frill.  According  to 
the  usual  order  of  the  entertainment,  there  was,  first — Tea  and 
Small  Talk ;  secondly,  an  original  essay,  which  should  have 
been  followed,  thirdly,  by  a  Discussion,  or  Great  Talk ;  but 
nine  times  in  ten,  it  chanced,  or  rather  mumchanced,  that,  be- 
tween those  who  did  not  know  what  to  think,  and  others,  who  did 
not  know  how  to  deliver  what  they  thought,  there  ensued  a  dead 
silence,  so  "  very  dead  indeed,"  as  Apollo  Belvi  says,  that  it 
seemed  -buried  into  the  bargain.  To  make  this  awkward  pause 
more  awkward,  some  misgiving  voice,  between  a  whisper  and  a 
croak,  would  stammer  out  some  allusion  to  a  Quaker's  Meeting, 
answered  from  right  to  left  by  a  running  titter,  the  speaker 
having  innocently,  or  perhaps  wilfully  forgotten,  that  one  or  two 
friends  in  drab  coats,  and  as  many  in  slate-colored  gowns,  were 
sitting,  thumb-twiddling,  in  the  circle.  Not  that  the  Friends 
contented  themselves  with  playing  dumby  at  our  discussions 
They  often  spoke,  and  very  characteristically,  to  the  matter  in 
hand.  For  instance,  their  favorite  doctrine  of  non-resistance 
was  once  pushed — if  Quakers  ever  push — a  little  "  beyond  be- 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


73 


yond."  By  way  of  clencher,  one  fair,  meek,  sleek  Quakeress, 
in  dove  color,  gravely  told  a  melo-dramatic  story  of  a  conscien- 
tious Friend,  who,  rather  than  lift  even  his  finger  against  a  Foe, 
passively,  yea,  lamb-like,  suffered  himself  to  be  butchered  in 
bed  by  an  assassin,  and  died  consistently,  as  he  thought,  with 
Fox  principles,  very  like  a  Goose.  As  regards  my  own  share 
in  the  Essays  and  Arguments,  it  misgives  me,  that  they  no  more 
satisfied  our  decidedly  serious  members,  than  they  now  propitiate 
Mr.  Rae  Wilson.  At  least,  one  Society  night,  in  escorting  a 
/emale  Fellow  towards  her  home,  she  suddenly  stopped  me, 
taking  advantage,  perhaps,  of  the  awful  locality,  and  its  associa- 
tions, just  in  front  of  our  chief  criminal  prison,  and  looking 
earnestly  in  my  face,  by  the  light  of  a  Newgate  lamp,  inquired 
somewhat  abruptly,  "  Mr.  Hood  !  are  you  not  an  Infidel  ?"* 

In  the  meantime,  whilst  thus  playing  at  Literature,  an  event 
was  ripening  which  was  to  introduce  me  to  Authorship  in  ear- 
nest, and  make  the  Muse,  with  whom  I  had  only  flirted,  my 
companion  for  life.  It  had  often  occurred  to  me,  that  a  striking, 
romantical,  necromantical,  metaphysical,  melo-dramatical,  Ger- 
manish  story,  might  be  composed,  the  interest  of  which  should 
turn  on  the  mysterious  influences  of  the  fate  of  A  over  the  des- 
tiny of  B,  the  said  parties  having  no  more  natural  or  apparent 
connection  with  each  other  than  Tenterden  Steeple  and  the 
Goodwin  Sands.  An  instance  of  this  occult  contingency  occur- 
red in  my  own  case  ;  for  I  did  not  even  know  by  sight  the  unfor- 
tunate gentleman  on  whose  untimely  exit  depended  my  entrance 
on  the  literary  stage.  In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1S21,  a 
memorable  duel,  originating  in  a  pen-and-ink  quarrel,  took  place 
at  Chalk  Farm,  and  terminated  in  the  death  of  Mr.  John  Scott, 
the  able  Editor  of  the  London  Magazine.  The  melancholy 
result  excited  great  interest,  in  which  I  fully  participated,  little 
dreaming  that  his  catastrophe  involved  any  consequences  of 
importance  to  myself.  But,  on  the  loss  of  its  conductor,  the 
Periodical  passed  into  other  hands.  The  new  Proprietors  were 
my  friends ;  they  sent  for  me,  and  after  some  preliminaries, 

*  In  justice  to  the  Society,  it  ought  to  be  recorded,  that  two  of  its  mem- 
bers have  since  distinguished  themselves  in  print:  the  authoress  of  "  Lon- 
don in  the  Olden  Tirre,"  and  the  author  of  a  "  History  of  Moral  Science  " 


74 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


I  was  duly  installed  as  a  sort  of  sub-Editor  of  the  Londor 
Magazine. 

It  would  be  affectation  to  say,  that  engraving  was  resigned  with 
regret.  There  is  always  something  mechanical  about  the  art — 
moreover,  it  is  as  unwholesome  as  wearisome  to  sit  copper-fas- 
tened  to  a  board,  with  a  cantle  scooped  out  to  accommodate  your 
stomach,  if  you  have  one,  painfully  ruling,  ruling,  and  still 
ruling  lines  straight  or  crooked,  by  the  long  hundred  to  the 
square  inch,  at  the  doubly-hazardous  risk  which  Wordsworth  so 
deprecates,  of  "  growing  double."  So  farewell  Woollett ! 
Strange  !  Bartolozzi !  I  have  said,  my  vanity  did  not  rashly 
plunge  me  into  authorship  :  but  no  sooner  was  there  a  legitimate 
opening  than  I  jumped  at  it,  a  la  Grimaldi,  head  foremost,  and 
was  speedily  behind  the  scenes. 

To  judge  by  my  zeal  and  delight  in  my  new  pursuit,  the  bowl 
had  at  last  found  its  natural  bias.*  Not  content  with  taking 
articles,  like  candidates  for  holy  orders — with  rejecting  articles 
like  the  Belgians — I  dreamt  articles,  thought  articles,  wrote 
articles,  which  were  all  inserted  by  the  editor,  of  course  with 
the  concurrence  of  his  deputy.  The  more  irksome  parts  of 
authorship,  such  as  the  correction  of  the  press,  were  to  me 
labors  of  love.  I  received  a  revise  from  Mr.  Baldwin's  Mr. 
Parker,  as  if  it  had  been  a  proof  of  his  regard ;  forgave  him 
all  his  slips,  and  really  thought  that  printers'  devils  were  not  so 
black  as  they  are  painted.  But  my  top-gallant  glory  was  in 
"  our  Contributors  !"  How  I  used  to  look  forward  to  Elia  !  and 
backward  for  Hazlitt,  and  all  round  for  Edward  Herbert,  and 
how  I  used  to  look  up  to  Allan  Cunningham  !  for  at  that  time 
the  London  had  a  goodly  list  of  writers — a  rare  company.  It 
is  now  defunct,  and  perhaps  no  ex-periodical  might  so  appropri- 
ately be  apostrophized  with  the  Irish  funereal  question — "Arrah, 

*  There  was  a  dash  of  ink  in  -my  blood.  My  father  wrote  two  novels, 
and  my  brother  was  decidedly  of  a  literary  turn,  to  the  great  disquietude 
for  a  time  of  an  anxious  parent.  She  suspected  him,  on  the  strength  of 
several  amatory  poems  of  a  very  desponding  cast,  of  being  the  victim  of  a 
hopeless  attachment ;  so  he  was  caught,  closeted,  and  catechised,  and  after 
a  deal  of  delicate  and  tender  sounding,  he  confessed,  not  with  the  antici- 
pated sighs  and  tears,  but  a  very  unexpected  burst  of  laughter,  that  he  hao 
Deen  guilty  of  translating  some  fragments  of  Petrarch. 


LITER  ARY  REMINISCENCES. 


lo 


honey,  why  did  you  die  V  Had  not  you  an  editor,  and  elegant 
prose  writers,  and  beautiful  poets,  and  broths  of  boys  for  criti- 
cism and  classics,  and  wits  and  humorists. — Elia,  Cary,  Procter, 
Cunningham,  Bowring,  Barton,  Hazlitt,  Elton,  Hartley  Cole- 
ridge, Talfourd,  Soane,  Horace  Smith,  Reynolds,  Poole,  Clare, 
and  Thomas  Benyon,  with  a  power  besides.  Hadn't  you  Lions' 
Heads  with  Traditional  Tales  ?  Hadn't  you  an  Opium  Eater, 
and  a  Dwarf,  and  a  Giant,  and  a  Learned  Lamb,  and  a  Green 
Man  ?  Had  not  you  a  regular  Drama,  and  a  Musical  Report, 
and  a  Report  of  Agriculture,  and  an  Obituary  and  a  Price  Cur- 
rent, and  a  current  price,  of  only  half-a-crown  ?  Arrah,  why 
did  you  die  ?  Why,  somehow  the  contributors  fell  away — the 
concern  went  into  other  hands — worst  of  all,  a  new  editor  tried 
to  put  the  Belles  Lettres  in  Utilitarian  envelopes ;  whereupon, 
the  circulation  of  the  Miscellany,  like  that  of  poor  Le  Fevre, 
got  slower,  slower,  slower, — and  slower  still — and  then  stopped 
for  ever !  It  was  a  sorry  scattering  of  those  old  Londoners  ! 
Some  went  out  of  the  country  :  one  (Clare)  went  into  it.  Lamb 
retreated  to  Colebrooke.  Mr.  Cary  presented  himself  to  the 
British  Museum.  Reynolds  and  Barry  took  to  engrossing  when 
they  should  pen  a  stanza,  and  Thomas  Benyon  gave  up  litera- 
ture. 

It  is  with  mingled  feelings  of  pride,  pleasure,  and  pain,  that 
I  revert  to  those  old  times,  when  the  writers  I  had  long  known 
and  admired  in  spirit  were  present  to  me  in  the  flesh — when  I 
had  the  delight  of  listening  to  their  wit  and  wisdom  from  their 
own  lips,  of  gazing  on  their  faces,  and  grasping  their  right 
hands.  Familiar  figures  rise  before  me,  familiar  voices  ring  in 
my  ears,  and,  alas !  amongst  them  are  shapes  that  I  must  never 
see,  sounds  that  I  can  never  hear,  again.  Before  my  departure 
from  England,  I  was  one  of  the  few  who  saw  the  grave  close 
over  the  remains  of  one  whom  to  know  as  a  friend  was  to  love 
as  a  relation.  Never  did  a  better  soul  go  to  a  better  world  ! 
Never  perhaps  (giving  the  lie  direct  to  the  common  imputation 
of  envy,  malice,  and  hatred,  amongst  the  brotherhood),  never 
did  an  author  descend — to  quote  his  favorite  Sir  T.  Browne — 
into  "  the  land  of  the  mole  and  the  pismire  "  so  hung  with  golden 
opinions,  and  honored  and  regretted  with  such  sincere  eulogies 


76 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


and  elegies,  by  his  contemporaries.  To  him,  the  first  of  these, 
my  reminiscences,  is  eminently  due.  for  I  lost  in  him  not  only 
a  dear  and  kind  friend,  but  an  invaluable  critic ;  one  whom, 
were  such  literary  adoptions  in  modern  use,  I  might  well  name, 
as  Cotton  called  Walton,  my  "  father."  To  borrow  the  earnest 
language  of  old  Jean  Bertaut,  as  Englished  by  Mr.  Cary — 

"  Thou,  chiefly,  noble  spirit,  for  whose  loss 
Just  grief  and  mourning  all  our  hearts  engross, 
Who  seeing  me  devoted  to  the  Nine, 
Did'st  hope  some  fruitage  from  those  buds  of  mine ; 
Thou  did'st  excite  me  after  thee  t'ascend 
The  Muses'  sacred  hill ;  nor  only  lend 
Example,  but  inspirit  me  to  reach 
The  far-off  summit  by  thy  friendly  speech. 
***** 

May  gracious  Heaven,  O  honor  of  our  age ! 

Make  the  conclusion  answer  thy  presage, 

Nor  let  it  only  for  vain  fortune  stand, 

That  I  have  seen  thy  visage — toucKd  thy  hand  P* 

I  was  sitting  one  morning  beside  our  Editor,  busily  correcting 
proofs,  when  a  visitor  was  announced,  whose  name,  grumbled 
by  a  low  ventriloquial  voice,  like  Tom  Pipes  calling  from  the 
hold  through  the  hatchway,  did  not  resound  distinctly  on  my 
tympanum.  However,  the  door  opened,  and  in  came  a  stranger, 
a  figure  remarkable  at  a  glance,  with  a  fine  head,  on  a  small 
spare  body,  supported  by  two  almost  immaterial  legs.  He  was 
clothed  in  sables,  of  a  by-gone  fashion,  but  there  was  something 
wanting,  or  something  present  about  him,  that  certified  he  was 
neither  a  divine,  nor  a  physician,  nor  a  schoolmaster :  from  a 
certain  neatness  and  sobriety  in  his  dress,  coupled  with  his  sedate 
bearing,  he  might  have  been  taken,  but  that  such  a  costume 
would  be  anomalous,  for  a  Quaker  in  black.  He  looked  still 
more  like  (what  he  really  was)  a  literary  Modern  Antique,  a 
New-Old  Author,  a  living  Anachronism,  contemporary  at  once 
with  Burton  the  Elder,  and  Colman  the  Younger.  Meanwhile 
he  advanced  with  rather  a  peculiar  gait,  his  walk  was  planti- 
grade, and  with  a  cheerful  "  How  d'ye,"  and  one  of  the  bland- 
est, sweetest  smiles  that  ever  brightened  a  manly  countenance, 
held  out  two  fingers  to  the  Editor.    The  two  gentlemen  in  black 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


77 


soon  fell  into  discourse ;  and  whilst  they  conferred,  the  Lavatei 
principle  within  me  set  to  work  upon  the  interesting  specimen 
thus  presented  to  its  speculations.  It  was  a  striking  intellectual 
face,  full  of  wiry  lines,  physiognomical  quips  and  cranks,  that 
gave  it  great  character.  There  was  much  earnestness  about 
the  brows,  and  a  deal  of  speculation  in  the  eyes,  which  were 
brown  and  bright,  and  "quick  in  turning the  nose,  a  decided 
one,  though  of  no  established  order ;  and  there  was  a  handsome 
smartness  about  the  mouth.  Altogether  it  was  no  common  face 
— none  of  those  willow-pattern  ones,  which  nature  turns  out  by 
thousands  at  her  potteries ; — but  more  like  a  chance  specimen 
of  the  Chinese  ware,  one  to  the  set — unique,  antique,  quaint. 
No  one  who  had  once  seen  it,  could  pretend  not  to  know  it  again. 
It  was  no  face  to  lend  its  countenance  to  any  confusion  of  per- 
sons in  a  Comedy  of  Errors.  You  might  have  sworn  to  it  piece- 
meal,— a  separate  affidavit  for  every  feature.  In  short,  his  face 
was  as  original  as  his  figure ;  his  figure  as  his  character;  his 
character  as  his  writings;  his  writings  the  most  original  of  the 
age.  After  the  literary  business  had  been  settled,  the  Editor 
invited  his  contributor  to  dinner,  adding  "  we  shall  have  a 
hare—" 

"  And — and — and — and  many  Friends  !" 

The  hesitation  in  the  speech,  and  the  readiness  of  the  allusion, 
were  alike  characteristic  of  the  individual,  whom  his  familiars 
will  perchance  have  recognized  already  as  the  delightful  Essay- 
ist, the  capital  Critic,  the  pleasant  Wit  and  Humorist,  the  deli- 
cate-minded and  large-hearted  Charles  Lamb  !  He  was  shy 
like  myself  with  strangers,  so,  that  despite  my  yearnings,  our 
first  meeting  scarcely  amounted  to  an  introduction.  We  were 
both  at  dinner,  amongst  the  hare's  many  friends,  but  our  ac- 
quaintance got  no  farther,  in  spite  of  a  desperate  attempt  on  my 
part  to  attract  his  notice.  His  complaint  of  the  Decay  of  Beg- 
gars presented  another  chance  :  I  wrote  on  coarse  paper,  and 
in  ragged  English,  a  letter  of  thanks  to  him  as  if  from  one  of 
his  mendicant  clients,  but  it  produced  no  effect.  I  had  given  up 
all  hope,  when  one  night,  sitting  sick  and  sad,  in  my  bed-room, 
racked  with  the  rheumatism,  the  door  was  suddenly  opened,  the 


78 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


well-known  quaint  figure  in  black  walked  in  without  any  for- 
mality, and  with  a  cheerful  "  Well,  boy,  how  are  you  ?  "  and 
the  bland,  sweet  smile,  extended  the  two  fingers.  They  were 
eagerly  clutched  of  course,  and  from  that  hour  we  were  firm 
friends. 

Thus  characteristically  commenced  my  intimacy  with  C 
Lamb.  He  had  recently  become  my  neighbor,  and  in  a  few 
days  called  again,  to  ask  me  to  tea,  "to  meet  Wordsworth." 
In  spite  of  any  idle  jests  to  the  contrary,  the  name  had  a  spell 
in  it  that  drew  me  to  Colebrooke  Cottage*  with  more  alacrity f 
than  consisted  with  prudence,  stiff  joints,  and  a  North  wind. 
But  I  was  willing  to  run,  at  least  hobble,  some  risk,  to  be  of  a 
party  in  a  parlor  with  the  Author  of  Laodamia  and  Hartleap 
Well.  As  for  his  Betty  Foy-bles,  he  is  not  the  first  man  by 
many,  who  has  met  with  a  simple  fracture  through  riding  his 
theory-hack  so  far  and  so  fast,  that  it  broke  down  with  him.  If 
he  has  now  and  then  put  on  a  nightcap,  so  have  his  own  next- 
door  mountains.  If  he  has  babbled,  sometimes,  like  an  infant 
of  two.  years  old ;  he  has  also  thought,  and  felt,  and  spoken,  the 
beautiful  fancies,  and  tender  affections,  and  artless  language,  of 
the  children  who  can  say  "  We  are  seven"  Along  with  food  for 
babes,  he  has  furnished  strong  meat  for  men.  So  I  put  on  my 
great-coat,  and  in  a  few  minutes  found  myself,  for  the  first  time, 
at  a  door,  that  opened  to  me  as  frankly  as  its  master's  heart ; 

*  A  cottage  of  Ungentility,  for  it  had  neither  double  coach-house  nor 
wings.  Like  its  tenant,  it  stood  alone.  He  said,  glancing  at  the  Paternos- 
ter one,  that  he  did  not  like  "  the  Row."  There  was  a  bit  of  a  garden,  in 
which,  being,  as  he  professed,  "more  fond  of  Men  Sects  than  of  Insects," 
he  made  probably  his  first  and  last  observation  in  Entomology.  He  had 
been  watching  a  spider  on  a  gooseberry  bush,  entrapping  a  fly.  "  I 
never  saw  such  a  thing,"  he  said.  "  Directly  he  was  caught  in  her 
fatal  spinning,  she  darted  down  upon  him,  and  in  a  minute  turned  him 
out,  completely  lapped  in  a  shroud  !  It  reminded  me  of  the  Fatal  Sis- 
ters in  Gray." 

f  A  sort  of  rheumatic  celerity,  of  which  Sir  W.  Scott's  favorite  drama- 
tiser  seemed  to  have  a  very  accurate  notion.  Those  who  remember  "  poor 
Terry's  "  deliberate  delivery,  will  be  able  to  account  for  the  shout  of  laugh- 
ter which  once  rang  throughout  the  Adelphi  green-room,  at  his  emphatic 

manner  of  giving,  from  a  manuscript  play,  the  stage  direction  of  "  Enter  , 

with  —  a— lack— ri— ty  !" 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


TO 


for,  without  any  preliminaries  of  hall,  passage,  or  parlor,  one 
single  step  across  the  threshold  brought  me  into  the  sitting-room, 
and  in  sight  of  the  domestic  hearth.  The  room  looked  brown 
with  "  old  bokes,"  and  beside  the  fire  sate  Wordsworth,  and  his 
sister,  the  hospitable  Elia,  and  the  excellent  Bridget.  As  for 
the  bard  of  Rydal,  his  outward  man  did  not,  perhaps,  disappoint 
one  ;  but  the  palaver,  as  the  Indians  say,  fell  short  of  my  an- 
ticipations. Perhaps  my  memory  is  in  fault ;  't  was  many  years 
ago,  and,  unlike  the  biographer  of  Johnson,  I  have  never  made 
Bozziness  my  business.  However,  excepting  a  discussion  on 
the  value  of  the  promissory  notes  issued  by  our  younger  poets;. 
wherein  Wordsworth  named  Shelley,  and  Lamb  took  John  Keate 
for  choice,  there  was  nothing  of  literary  interest  brought  upon 
the  carpet.  But  a  book  man  cannot  always  be  bookish.  A  poet, 
even  a  Rydal  one,  must  be  glad  at  times  to  descend  from  Saddle- 
back, and  feel  his  legs.  He  cannot,  like  the  Girl  in  the  Fairy 
Tale,  be  always  talking  diamonds  and  pearls.  It  is  a  "  Vulgar 
Error  "  to  suppose  that  an  author  must  be  always  authoring, 
even  with  his  feet  on  the  fender.  Nevertheless,  it  is  not  an  un- 
common impression,  that  a  writer  sonnetizes  his  wife,  sings  odes 
to  his  children,  talks  ?ssays  and  epigrams  to  his  friends,  and  re- 
views his  servants.  It  was  in  something  of  this  spirit  that  an 
official  gentleman  to  whom  I  mentioned  the  pleasant  literary 
meetings  at  Lamb's,  associated  them  instantly  with  his  parochial 
mutual  instruction  evening  schools,  and  remarked,  "Yes,  yes, 
all  very  proper  and  praiseworthy — of  course,  you  go  there  to 
improve  your  minds." 

And  very  pleasant  and  improving,  ,/CUgh  not  of  set  purpose, 
to  both  mind  and  heart,  were  those  extempore  assemblages  at 
Colebrooke  Cottage.  It  was  wholesome  for  the  soul  but  to 
breathe  its  atmosphere.  It  was  a  House  of  Call  for  All  Denom- 
inations. Sides  were  lost  in  that  circle,  Men  of  all  parties  post- 
poned their  partizanship,  and  met  as  on  a  neutral  ground.  There 
were  but  two  persons  whom  L.  avowedly  did  not  wish  to  en- 
counter beneath  his  roof,  and  those  two,  merely  on  account  of 
private  and  family  differences.  For  the  rest,  they  left  all  their 
hostilities  at  the  door,  with  their  sticks.  This  forbearance  was 
due  to  the  truly  tolerant  spirit  of  the  Host,  which  influenced  all 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


within  its  sphere.  Lamb,  whilst  he  willingly  lent  a  crutch  to 
halting  Humility,  took  delight  in  tripping  up  the  stilts  of  Pre- 
tension. Anybody  might  trot  out  his  Hobby ;  but  he  allowed 
nobody  to  ride  the  High  Horse.  If  it  was  a  High  German  one, 
like  those  ridden  by  the  Devil  and  Doctor  Faustus,  he  would 
chaunt 

"Geuty,  Geuty, 
Is  a  great  Beauty,'* 

till  the  rider  moderated  his  gallop.  He  hated  anything  like 
Cock-of-the-Walk-ism  ;  and  set  his  face  and  his  wit  against  all 
Ultraism,  Transcendentalism,  Sentimentalism,  Conventional 
Mannerism,  and  above  all,  Separatism.  In  opposition  to  the 
Exclusives,  he  was  emphatically  an  Inclusive. 

As  he  once  owned  to  me,  he  was  fond  of  antagonising.  In- 
deed in  the  sketch  of  himself,  prefacing  the  Last  Essays  of 
Elia — a  sketch  for  its  -truth  to  have  delighted  Mason  the  Self- 
Knowledge  man — he  says,  "  with  the  Religionist  I  pass  for  a 
Free-Thinker,  while  the  other  faction  set  me  down  for  a  Bigot." 
In  fact,  no  politician  ever  labored  more  to  preserve  the  Balance 
of  Power  in  Europe,  than  he  did  to  correct  any  temporary  pre- 
ponderances. He  was  always  trimming  in  the  nautical,  not  in 
the  political,  sense.  Thus  in  his  "  magnanimous  letter,"  as 
Hazlitt  called  it,  to  High  Church  Southey,  he  professed  himself 
a  Unitarian.*  With  a  Catholic  he  would  probably  have  called 
himself  a  Jew  ;  as  amongst  Quakers,  by  way  of  a  set-off  against 
their  own  formality,  he  would  indulge  in  a  little  extra  levity.  I 
well  remember  his  chuckling  at  having  spirited  on  his  corres- 
pondent Bernard  Barton,  to  commit  some  little  enormities,  such 
as  addressing  him  as  C.  Lamb,  Esquire. 

My  visits  at  Lamb's  were  shortly  interrupted  by  a  sojourn  to 
unrheumatize  myself  at  Hastings  ;  but  in  default  of  other  inter- 
course, I  received  a  letter  in  a  well-known  hand,  quaint  as  the 
sentences  it  conveyed. 

*  As  regards  his  Unitarianism,  it  strikes  me  as  more  probable  that  he  was 
what  the  unco  guid  people  call  "  Nothing  at  all,"  which  means  that  he  was 
everything  but  a  Bigot.  As  he  was  in  spirit  an  Old  Author,  so  he  was  in 
faith  an  Ancient  Christian,  too  ancient  to  belong  to  any  of  the  modern  sub- 
hubbub-divisions  of — Ists,—  Arians,  and — Inians. 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


61 


"And  what  dost  thou  at  the  Priory?  Cucullus  non  faci 
Monachum.  English  me  that,  and  challenge  old  Lignum  Janua 
to  make  a  better. 

"  My  old  New  River  has  presented  no  extraordinary  novelties 
lately.  But  there  Hope  sits  every  day  speculating  upon  tradi- 
tionary gudgeons.  I  think  she  has  taken  the  fisheries.  I  now 
know  the  reason  why  our  forefathers  were  denominated  East 
and  West  Angles.  Yet  is  there  no  lack  of  spawn,  for  I  wash 
:ny  hands  in  fishets  that  come  through  the  pump  every  mornings 
thick  as  motelings — little  things  that  perish  untimely,  and  never 
taste  the  brook.  You  do  not  tell  me  of  those  romantic  Land 
Bays  that  be  as  thou  goest  to  Lover's  Seat,  neither  of  that  little 
Churchling  in  the  midst  of  a  wood  (in  the  opposite  direction 
nine  furlongs  from  the  town),  that  seems  dropt  by  the  Angel  that 
was  tired  of  carrying  two  packages :  marry,  with  the  other  he 
made  shift  to  pick  his  flight  to  Loretto.  Inquire  out  and  see  my 
little  Protestant  Loretto.  It  stands  apart  from  trace  of  human 
habitation,  yet  hath  it  pulpit,  reading-desk,  and  trim  front  of 
massiest  marble,  as  if  Robinson  Crusoe  had  reared  it  to  soothe 
himself  with  old  church-going  images.  I  forget  its  Xtian  name, 
and  what  She  Saint  was  its  gossip. 

"  You  should  also  go  to  No.  13,  Standgate  Street,  a  Baker,  who 
has  the  finest  collection  of  marine  monsters  in  ten  sea  counties ; 
sea-dragons,  polypi,  mer-people,  most  fantastic.  You  have  only 
to  name  the  old  Gentleman  in  black  (not  the  Devil),  that  lodged 
with  him  a  week  (he'll  remember)  last  July,  and  he  will  show 
courtesy.  He  is  by  far  the  foremost  of  the  Savans.  His  wife 
is  the  funniest  thwarting  little  animal  !  They  are  decidedly  the 
Lions  of  green  Hastings.  Well,  I  have  made  an  end  of  my  say  ; 
— my  epistolary  time  is  gone  by  when  I  could  have  scribbled  as 
long  (I  will  not  say  as  agreeable)  as  thine  was  to  both  of  us.  I 
am  dwindled  to  notes  and  letterets.  But  in  good  earnest  I  shall 
be  most  happy  to  hail  thy  return  to  the  waters  of  old  Sir  Hugh. 
There  is  nothing  like  inland  murmurs,  fresh  ripples,  and  our 
native  minnows. 

He  sang  in  meads,  how  sweet  the  brooklets  ran, 
To  the  rough  ocean  and  red  restless  sands. 


7 


82 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


I  design  to  give  up  smoking;  but  I  have  not  yet  fixed  upon  the 
equivalent  vice.  I  must  have  quid  pro  quo,  or  quo  pro  quid,  as 
Tom  Woodgate  would  correct  me.    My  service  to  him. 

"C.  L.'' 

The  letter  came  to  hand  too  late  for  me  to  hunt  the  "  Lions 
but  on  a  subsequent  visit  to  the  same  Cinque  Port  with  my  wife, 
though  we  verified  the  little  Loretto,  we  could  not  find  the  Baker, 
or  even  his  man,  howbeit  we  tried  at  every  shop  that  had  the 
least  sign  of  bakery  or  cakery  in  its  window.  The  whole  was  a 
batch  of  fancy  bread  ;  one  of  those  fictions  which  the  writer  was 
apt  to  pass  off  upon  his  friends. 

The  evening  meetings  at  Colebrooke  Cottage — where  some- 
body, who  was  somebody,  or  a  literary  friend,  was  sure  to  drop 
in — were  the  more  grateful  to  me,  as  the  London  Magazine  was 
now  in  a  rapid  decline ;  some  of  its  crack  contributors  had  left 
it  off,  and  the  gatherings  of  the  clan  to  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry, 
were  few  and  far  between.  There  was  indeed  one  Venison 
Feast  whereat,  I  have  heard,  the  scent  lay  more  than  breast 
high,  and  the  sport  was  of  as  rich  a  quality ;  but  it  was  my 
chance  to  be  absent  from  the  pack.  At  former  dinners,  how- 
ever, I  had  been  a  guest,  and  a  sketch  of  one  of  them  may  serve 
to  introduce  some  of  the  principal  characters  of  our  "  London  in 
the  Olden  Time." 

On  the  right  hand,  then,  of  the  Editor  sits  Elia,  of  the  pleasant 
smile,  and  the  quick  eyes — Procter  said  of  them  that  "  they 
looked  as  if  they  could  pick  up  pins  and  needles" — and  a  wit  as 
quick  as  his  eyes,  and  sure,  as  Hazlitt  described,  to  stammer  out 
the  best  pun  and  the  best  remark  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 
Next  to  him,  shining  verdantly  out  from  the  grave-colored  suits 
of  the  literati,  like  a  patch  of  turnips  amidst  stubble  and  fallow, 
behold  our  Jack  i'  the  Green — John  Clare  !  In  his  bright, 
grass-colored  coat,  and  yellow  waistcoat  (there  are  greenish 
stalks,  too,  under  the  table),  he  looks  a  very  Cowslip,  and  blooms 
amongst  us  as  Goldsmith  must  have  done  in  his  peach-blossom. 
No  wonder  the  door-keeper  of  the  Soho  Bazaar,  seeing  that  very 
countrified  suit,  linked  arm-in-arm  with  the  Editorial  sables,  made 
a  boggle  at  admitting  them  into  his  repository,  having  seen. 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


S3 


perchance,  such  a  made-up  Peasant  "playing  at  playing"  at 
thimble-rig  about  the  Square.  No  wonder  the  gentleman's  gen- 
tleman, in  the  drab-coat  and  sealing-wax  smalls,  at  W  's, 

was  for  cutting  off  our  Green  Man,  who  was  modestly  the  last 
in  ascending  the  stairs,  as  an  interloper,  though  he  made  amends 
afterwards  by  waiting  almost  exclusively  on  the  Peasant,  per- 
fectly convinced  that  he  was  some  eccentric  Notable  of  the 
Corinthian  order,  disguised  in  Rustic.  Little  wonder,  either, 
that  in  wending  homewards  on  the  same  occasion  through  the 
Strand,  the  Peasant  and  Elia,  Sylvanus  et  Urban,  linked  com- 
fortably together  ;  there  arose  the  frequent  cry  of  "  Look  at 
Tom  and  Jerry — there  goes  Tom  and  Jerry  !"  for  truly,  Clare 
in  his  square-cut  green  coat,  and  Lamb,  in  his  black,  were  not  a 
little  suggestive  of  Hawthorn  and  Logic,  in  the  plates  tp  "  Life 
in  London." 

But  to  return  to  the  table.  Elia — much  more  of  House  Lamb 
than  of  Grass  Lamb — avowedly  caring  little  or  nothing  for 
Pastoral  ;  cottons,  nevertheless,  very  kindly  to  the  Northamp- 
tonshire Poet,  and  still  more  to  his  ale,  pledging  him  again  and 
again  as  "  Clarissimus,"  and  "  Princely  Clare,"  and  sometimes 
so  lustily,  as  to  make  the  latter  cast  an  anxious  glance  into  his 
tankard.  By  his  bright  happy  look,  the  Helpstone  Visitor  is 
inwardly  contrasting  the  unlettered  country  company  of  Clod, 
and  Hodge  and  Podge,  with  the  delights  of  "London"  society — 
Elia,  and  Barry,  and  Herbert,  and  Mr.  Table-Talk,  cum  multis 
aliis — i.  e.  a  multiplicity  of  all.  But  besides  the  tankard,  the 
two  "  drouthie  neebors"  discuss  Poetry  in  general,*  and  Mont- 
gomery's "Common  Lot"  in  particular,  Lamb  insisting  on  the 
beauty  of  the  tangental  sharp  turn  at  "  O  !  she  was  fair  !"  think- 
ing, mayhap,  of  his  own  Alice  W  ,  and  Clare  swearing 

"  Dal !"  (a  clarified  oath)  "Dal !  if  it  isn't  like  a  Dead  Man 
preaching  out  of  his  coffin !"  Anon,  the  Humorist  begins  to 
banter  the  Peasant  on  certain  "  Clare-obscurities  "  in  his  own 

*  Talking  of  Poetry,  Lamb  told  me  one  day  that  he  had  just  met  with  the 
most  vigorous  line  he  had  ever  read.  "  Where  ?"  "  Out  of  the  Camden's 
Head,  all  in  one  line — 


"  To  One  Hundred  Pots  of  Porter        .    .    .    .    £2  15" 


84 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


verses,  originating  in  a  contempt  for  the  rules  of  Priscian,  where 
upon  the  accused,  thinking  with  Burns, 

"  What  ser'es  their  grammars  ? 
They'd  better  ta'en  up  spades  and  shools, 
Or  knappin  hammers," 

vehemently  denounces  all  Philology  as  nothing  but  a  sort  of 
man-trap  for  authors,  and  heartily  dais  Lindley  Murray  for 
"  inventing  it." 

It  must  have  been  at  such  a  time,  that  Hilton  conceived  his 

clever  portrait  of  C  ,  when  he  was  "  C.  in  alt."    He  was 

hardy,  rough,  and  clumsy  enough  to  look  truly  rustic — like  an 
Ingram's  rustic  chair.  There  was  a  slightness  about  his  frame, 
with  a  delicacy  of  features  and  complexion,  that  associated  him 
more  with  the  Garden  than  with  the  Field,  and  made  him  look  the 
Peasant  of  a  Ferme  Ornee.  In  this  respect  he  was  as  much 
beneath  the  genuine  stalwart  bronzed  Plough-Poet,  Burns,  as 
above  the  Farmer's  Boy,  whom  I  remember  to  have  seen  in  my 
childhood,  when  he  lived  in  a  miniature  house,  near  the  Shepherd 
and  Shepherdess,  now  the  Eagle  tavern,  in  the  City  Road,  and 
manufactured  iEolian  harps,  and  kept  ducks.  The  Suffolk 
Giles  had  very  little  of  the  agricultural  in  his  appearance  ;  he 
looked  infinitely  more  like  a  handicraftsman,  town-made. 

Poor  Clare  ! — It  would  greatly  please  me  to  hear  that  he  was 
happy  and  well,  and  thriving  ;  but  the  transplanting  of  Peasants 
and  Farmers'  Boys  from  the  natural  ,  into  an  artificial  soil,  does 
not  always  conduce  to  their  happiness,  or  health,  or  ultimate 
well-doing.  I  trust  the  true  Friends,  who,  with  a  natural  han- 
kering after  poetry,  because  it  is  forbidden  them,  have  ventured 
to  pluck  and  eat  of  the  pastoral  sorts,  as  most  dallying  with  the 
innocence  of  nature, — and  who  on  that  account  patronised  Capt. 
Lotffs  protege — 1  do  trust  and  hope  they  took  off  whole  editions 
of  the  Northamptonshire  Bard.  There  was  much  about  Clare 
for  a  Quaker  to  like;  he  was  tender-hearted,  and  averse  to 
violence.  How  he  recoiled  once,  bodily-taking  his  chair  along 
with  him, — from  a  young  surgeon,  or  surgeon's  friend,  who  let 
drop,  somewhat  abruptly,  that  he  was  just  come  "from  seeing  a 
child  skinned  !" — Clare,   from  his  look  of  ho  ror,  evidently 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


85 


thought  that  the  poor  infant,  like  Marsyas,  had  been  flayed 
alive  !  He  was  both  gentle  and  simple.  I  have  heard  that  on 
his  first  visit  to  London,  his  publishers  considerately  sent  their 
porter  to  meet  him  at  the  inn  ;  but  when  Thomas  necessarily 
inquired  of  the  gentleman  in  green,  "  Are  you  Mr.  Clare  V  the 
latter,  willing  to  foil  the  traditionary  tricks  of  London  sharpers, 
replied  to  the  suspicious  query  with  "a  positive  negative.''  * 

The  Brobdignagdian  next  to  Clare,  overtopping  him  by  the 
whole  head  and  shoulders — a  physical  "  Colossus  of  Literature," 
the  grenadier  of  our  corps — is  Allan,  not  Allan  Ramsay,  no, 
nor  Barbara  Allan  neither,"  but  Allan  Cunningham, — "  a  credit," 
quoth  Sir  Walter  Scott  (he  might  have  said  a  long  credit)  "  to 
Caledonia."  He  is  often  called  "  honest  Allan,"  to  distinguish 
him,  perhaps,  from  one  Allan-a-Dale,  who  was  apt  to  mistake 
his  neighbors'  goods  for  his  own — sometimes,  between  ourselves, 
yclept  the  "  C.  of  Solway,"  in  allusion  to  that  favorite  "Allan 
Water,"  the  Solway  Sea.  There  is  something  of  the  true 
moody  poetical  weather  observable  in  the  barometer  of  his  face, 
alternating  from  Variable  to  Showery,  from  Stormy  to  Set  Fair. 
At  times  he  looks  gloomy  and  earnest  and  traditional — a  little 
like  a  Covenanter — but  he  suddenly  clears  up  and  laughs  a 
hearty  laugh  that  lifts  him  an  inch  or  two  from  his  chair,  for  he 
rises  at  a  joke  when  he  sees  one,  like  a  trout  at  a  fly,  and  finishes 
with  a  smart  rubbing  of  his  ample  palms.  He  has  store,  too, 
of  broad  Scotch  stories,  and  shrewd  sayings  ;  and  he  writes — 
no,  he  wrote  rare  old-new  or  new-old  ballads.  Why  not  now  ? 
Has  his  Pegasus,  as  he  once  related  of  his  pony,  run  from  under 
him  ?  Has  the  Mermaid  of  Galloway  left  no  little  ones  ?  Is 
Bonnie  Lady  Ann  married,  or  May  Morison  dead  ?  Thou  wast 
formed  for  a  poet,  Allan,  by  nature,  and  by  stature  too,  accord- 
ing to  Pope — 

"  To  snatch  a  grace  beyond  the  reach  of  Art." 

And  are  there  not  Longman,  or  Tallboys,  for  thy  Publishers  ? 

*  Somebody  happened  to  say  that  the  Peasant  ought  to  figure  in  the  Percy 
Anecaotes,  as  an  example  of  uncultivated  genius  "  And  where  will  they 
stick  me,"  asked  Clare  ;  "  will  they  stick  me  in  the  instinct  ?" 


86  PROSE  AND  VERSE. 

But,  alas  !  we  are  fallen  on  evil  days  for  Bards  and  Barding,  and 
nine  tailors  do  more  for  a  man  than  the  Nine  Muses.  The  only- 
Lay  likely  to  answer  now-a-days  would  be  an  Ode  (with  the 
proper  testimonials)  to  the  Literary  Fund  ! 

The  Reverend  personage  on  the  Editor's  right,  with  the  stu- 
dious brow,  deep-set  eyes,  and  bald  crown,  is  the  mild  and 
modest  Cary — the  same  who  turned  Dante  into  Miltonic  English 
blank  verse.  He  is  sending  his  plate  towards  the  partridges, 
which  he  will  relish  and  digest  as  though  they  were  the  Birds  of 
Aristophanes.  He  has  his  eye.  too,  on  the  French  made-dishes.* 
Pity,  shame  and  pity,  such  a  Tianslator  found  no  better  trans- 
lation in  the  Church  !  Is  it  possible  that,  in  some  no-popery 
panic,  it  was  thought  by  merely  being  Dragoman  to  Purgatory 
he  had  Homed  from  the  true  faith  ? 

A  very  pleasant  day  we  "  Londoners  "  once  spent  at  a  Chis- 
wick  parsonage,  formerly  tenanted  by  Hogarth,  along  with  the 
hospitable  Cary,  and,  as  Elia  called  them,  his  Caryatides !  j" 
The  last  time  my  eyes  rested  on  the  Interpreter  (of  the  House 
Beautiful  as  well  as  of  the  Inferno)  he  was  on  the  Library  steps 
of  the  British  Museum.  Ere  this,  I  trust  he  hath  reached  the 
tiptop — nay,  hath  perhaps  attained  being  a  Literary  Worthy, 
even  unto  a  Trusteeship,  and  had  to  buy,  at  Ellis's,  a  few  yards 
of  the  Blue  Ribbon  of  Literature  ! 

Procter, — alias  Barry  Cornwall,  formerly  of  the  Marcian 
Colonnade,  now  of  some  prosaical  Inn  of  Court — the  kindly 
Procter,  one  of  the  foremost  to  welcome  me  into  the  Brotherhood, 
with  a  too-flattering  Dedication  (another  instance  against  the 
jealousy  of  authors),  is  my  own  left-hand  file.  But  what  he 
says  shall  be  kept  as  strictly  confidential  ;  for  he  is  whispering 
it  into  my  Martineau  ear.  On  my  other  side,  when  I  turn  that 
way,  I  see  a  profile,  a  shadow  of  which  ever  confronts  me  on 
opening  my  writing-desk, — a  sketch  taken  from  memory,  the 

*  I  once  cut  out  from  a  country  newspaper  what  seemed  to  me  a  very 
good  old  English  poem.  It  proved  to  be  a  naturalization,  by  Cary,  of  a 
French  Song  to  April,  by  Remy  Belleau. 

f  The  father  expressing  an  uncertainty  to  what  profession  he  should  de- 
vote a  younger  Cary,  Lamb  said,  "  Make  him  an  Apothe-Cary. ' 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


87 


day  after  seeing  the  original.*  In  opposition  to  the  "  extra 
man's  size  "  of  Cunningham,  the  party  in  question  looks  almost 
boyish,  partly  from  being  in  bulk  somewhat  beneath  Monsieur 
Quetelet's  "  Average  Man,"  but  still  more  so  from  a  peculiar 
delicacy  of  complexion  and  smallness  of  features,  which  look 
all  the  smaller  from  his  wearing,  in  compliment,  probably,  to  the 
Sampsons  of  Teutonic  Literature,  his  locks  unshorn.  Neverthe- 
less whoever  looks  again, 

Sees  more  than  marks  the  crowd  of  common  men. 

There  is  speculation  in  the  eyes,  a  curl  of  the  lip,  and  a  general 
character  in  the  outline,  that  reminds  one  of  some  portraits  of 
Voltaire.  And  a  Philosopher  he  is  every  inch.  He  looks,  thinks, 
writes,  talks  and  walks,  eats  and  drinks,  and  no  doubt  sleeps 
philosophically — i.  e.  deliberately.  There  is  nothing  abrupt 
about  his  motions, — he  goes  and  comes  calmly  and  quickly — like 
the  phantom  of  Hamlet,  he  is  here — he  is  there — he  is  gone. 
So  it  is  with  his  discourse.  He  speaks  slowly,  clearly,  and 
with  very  marked  emphasis, — the  tide  of  talk  flows  like  Den- 
ham's  river,  "strong  without  rage,  without  overflowing,  full." 
When  it  was  my  frequent  and  agreeable  duty  to  call  on  Mr.  De 
Quincey  (being  an  uncommon  name  to  remember,  the  servant 
associated  it,  on  the  Memoria  Technica  principle,  with  a  sore 
throat,  and  always  pronounced  it  Quinsy),  and  I  have  found  him 
at  home,  quite  at  home,  in  the  midst  of  a  German  Ocean  of 
Literature,  in  a  storm, — flooding  all  the  floor,  the  table  and  the 
chairs, — billows  of  books  tossing,  tumbling,  surging  open, — on 
such  occasions  I  have  willingly  listened  by  the  hour  whilst  the 
Philosopher,  standing,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  one  side  of  the  room, 
seemed  to  be  less  speaking  than  reading  from  a  "  handwriting 
on  the  wall."    Now  and  then  he  would  diverge,  for  a  Scotch 

*  Unable  to  make  anything  "like  a  likeness,"  of  a  sitter  for  the  purpose, 
I  have  a  sort  of  Irish  faculty  for  taking  faces  behind  their  backs.  But  my 
pencil  has  not  been  guilty  of  half  the  personalities  attributed  to  it ;  amongst 
others  "  a  formidable  likeness  of  a  Lombard  Street  Banker."  Besides  that 
one  would  rather  draw  on  a  Banker  than  at  him,  I  have  never  seen  the  Gen- 
tleman alluded  to,  or  even  a  portrait  of  him  in  my  life. 


88 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


mile  or  two,  to  the  right  or  left,  till  I  was  tempted  to  inquire  with 
Peregrine  in  John  Bull  (Colman's  not  Hook's),  "Do  you  never 
deviate  ?" — but  he  always  came  safely  back  to  the  point  where 
he  had  left,  not  lost  the  scent,  and  thence  hunted  his  topic  to  the 
end.  But  look  ! — we  are  in  the  small  hours,  and  a  change 
comes  o'er  the  spirit  of  that  "  old  famifiar  face."  A  faint  hec- 
tic tint  leaves  the  cheek,  the  eyes  are  a  degree  dimmer,  and  each 
is  surrounded  by  a  growing  shadow — signs  of  the  waning  influ- 
ence of  that  Potent  Drug  whose  stupendous  Pleasures  and  enor- 
mous Pains  have  been  so  eloquently  described  by  the  English 
Opium  Eater.  Marry,  I  have  one  of  his  Confessions  with  his 
own  name  and  mark  to  it : — an  apology  for  a  certain  stain  on 
his  MS.,  the  said  stain  being  a  large  purplish  ring.  "  Within 
that  circle  none  durst  drink  but  he," — in  fact  the  impression, 
colored,  of  "  a  tumbler  of  laudanum  negus,  warm,  without  su- 
gar." * 

That  smart  active  person  opposite  with  a  game-cock-looking 
head,  and  the  hair  combed  smooth,  fighter  fashion,  over  his  fore- 
head— with  one  finger  hooked  round  a  glass  of  champaigne,  not 
that  he  requires  it  to  inspirit  him,  for  his  wit  bubbles  up  of  itself 
— is  our  Edward  Herbert,  the  Author  of  that  true  piece  of  Bio- 
graphy, the  life  of  Peter  Corcoran.  He  is  "good  with  both 
hands,"  like  that  Nonpareil  Randall,  at  a  comic  verse  or  a  seri- 
ous stanza — smart  at  a  repartee — sharp  at  a  retort, — and  not 
averse  to  a  bit  of  mischief.  'Twas  he  who  gave  the  runaway 
ring  at  Wordsworth's  Peter  Bell.  Generally,  his  jests,  set  off 
by  a  happy  manner,  are  only  ticklesome,  but  now  and  then  they 
are  sharp-flavored, — like  the  sharpness  of  the  pine-apple. 
Would  I  could  give  a  sample.  Alas  !  What  a  pity  it  is  that 
so  many  good  things  uttered  by  Poets,  and  Wits,  and  Humorists, 

*  On  a  visit  to  Norfolk,  I  was  much  surprised  to  find  that  Opium,  or  Opie, 
as  it  was  vulgarly  called,  was  quite  in  common  use  in  the  form  of  pills 
amongst  the  lower  classes,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Fens.  It  is  not  probable 
that  persons  in  such  a  rank  of  life  had  read  the  Confessions, — or,  might  not 
one  suspect  that  as  Dennis  Brulgruddery  was  driven  to  drink  by  the  stale,  flat 
and  unprofitable  prospects  of  Muckslush  Heath,  so  the  Fen-People  in  the 
dreary  foggy  cloggy  boggy  wastes  of  Cambridge  and  Lincolnshire,  had  flown 
to  the  Drug  for  the  sake  of  the  magnificent  scenery  that  filled  the  splendid 
visions  of  its  Historian  ? 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES.  89 

at  chance  times — and  they  are  always  the  best  and  brightest, 
like  sparks  struck  out  by  Pegasus'  own  hoof,  in  a  curvet  amongs 
the  flints — should  be  daily  and  hourly  lost  to  the  world  for  want 
of  a  recorder !  But  in  this  Century  of  Inventions,  when  a  self- 
acting  drawing-paper  has  been  discovered  for  copying  visible 
objects,  who  knows  but  that  a  future  Niepce,  or  Daguerre,  or 
Herschel,  or  Fox  Talbot,  may  find  out  some  sort  of  Boswellish 
writing-paper  to  repeat  whatever  it  hears  ! 

There  are  other  Contributors — poor  Hazlitt  for  instance — 
whose  shades  rise  up  before  me  :  but  I  never  met  with  them  at 
the  Entertainments  just  described.  Shall  we  ever  meet  any- 
where again?  Alas!  some  are  dead;  and  the  rest  dispersed  ; 
and  days  of  Social  Clubs  are  over  and  gone,  when  the  Professors 
and  Patrons  of  Literature  assembled  round  the  same  steaming 
bowl,  and  Johnson,  always  best  out  of  print,  exclaimed,  "  Lads  ! 
who's  for  Poonch !" 

****** 
Amongst  other  notable  men  who  came  to  Colebrooke  Cottage, 
I  had  twice  the  good  fortune  of  meeting  with  S.  T.  Coleridge. 
The  first  time  he  came  from  Highgate  with  Mrs.  Gilman,  to  dine 
with  "  Charles  and  Mary."  What  a  contrast  to  Lamb  was  the 
full-bodied  Poet,  with  his  waving  white  hair,  and  his  face  round, 
ruddy,  and  unfurrowed  as  a  holy  Friar's  !  Apropos  to  which 
face  he  gave  us  a  humorous  description  of  an  unfinished  por- 
trait, that  served  him  for  a  sort  of  barometer,  to  indicate  the 
state  of  his  popularity.  So  sure  as  his  name  made  any  tempo- 
rary stir,  out  came  the  canvas  on  the  easel,  and  a  request  from 
the  artist  for  another  sitting  :  down  sank  the  Original  in  the 
public  notice,  and  back  went  the  copy  into  a  corner,  till  some 
fresh  publication  or  accident  again  brought  forward  the  Poet ; 
and  then  forth  came  the  picture  for  a  few  more  touches.  I 
sincerely  hope  it  has  been  finished  !  What  a  benign,  smiling 
face  it  was  !  What  a  comfortable,  respectable  figure  !  What 
a  model,  methought,  as  I  watched  and  admired  the  "  Old  Man 
eloquent,"  for  a  Christian  bishop  !  But  he  was,  perhaps,  scarcely 
orthodox  enough  to  be  trusted  with  a  mitre.  At  least,  some  o'f 
his  voluntaries  would  have  frightened  a  common  everyday  con- 
gregation from  their  propriety.    Amongst  other  matters  of  dis- 


00  PROSE  AND  VERSE. 

course,  he  came  to  speak  of  the  strange  notions  some  literal, 
minded  persons  form  of  the  joys  of  Heaven  ;  joys  they  asso- 
ciated with  mere  temporal  things,  in  which,  for  his  own  part, 
finding  no  delight  in  this  world,  he  could  find  no  bliss  hereafter, 
without  a  change  in  his  nature,  tantamount  to  the  loss  of  his  per- 
sonal identity.  For  instance,  he  said,  there  are  persons  who 
place  the  whole  angelical  beatitude  in  the  possession  of  a  pair  of 
wings  to  flap  about  with,  like  '  a  sort  of  celestial  poultry."  Af- 
ter dinner  he  got  up,  and  began  pacing  to  and  fro,  with  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  talking  and  walking,  as  Lamb  laughingly 
hinted,  as  if  qualifying  for  an  itinerant  preacher  ;  now  fetching 
a  simile  from  Loddiges'  garden,  at  Hackney  ;  and  then  flying 
off*  for  an  illustration  to  the  sugar-making  in  Jamaica.  With 
his  fine,  flowing  voice,  it  was  glorious  music,  of  the  "  never- 
ending,  still-beginning  "  kind  ;  and  you  did  not  wish  it  to  end. 
It  was  rare  flying,  as  in  the  Nassau  Balloon  ;  you  knew  not 
whither,  nor  did  you  care.  Like  his  own  bright-eyed  Marinere, 
he  had  a  spell  in  his  voice  that  would  not  let  you  go.  To  at- 
tempt to  describe  my  own  feeling  afterward,  I  had  been  carried, 
spiralling,  up  to  heaven  by  a  whirlwind  intertwisted  with  sun- 
beams, giddy  and  dazzled,  but  not  displeased,  and  had  then 
been  rained  down  again  with  a  shower  of  mundane  stocks  and 
stones  that  battered  out  of  me  all  recollection  of  what  I  had 
heard,  and  what  I  had  seen  ! 

On  the  second  occasion,  the  author  of  Christabel  was  accom- 
panied by  one  of  his  sons.  The  Poet,  talking  and  walking  as 
usual,  chanced  to  pursue  some  argument,  which  drew  from  the 
son,  who  had  not  been  introduced  to  me,  the  remark,  "Ah,  that's 
just  like  your  crying  up  those  foolish  Odes  and  Addresses !" 
Coleridge  was  highly  amused  with  this  mal-apropos,  and,  with- 
out explaining,  looked  slily  round  at  me,  with  the  sort  of  sup- 
pressed laugh  one  may  suppose  to  belong  to  the  Bey  of  Titfery. 
The  truth  was,  he  felt  naturally  partial  to  a  book  he  had  attri- 
buted in  the  first  instance  to  the  dearest  of  his  friends. 

"  My  dear  Charles, — This  afternoon,  a  little,  thin,  mean- 
looking  sort  of  a  foolscap,  sub-octavo  of  poems,  printed  on  very 
dingy  outsides,  lay  on  the  table,  which  the  cover  informed  me 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


was  circulating  in  our  book-club,  so  very  Grub  Streetish  in  all 
its  appearance,  internal  as  well  as  external,  that  I  cannot  ex- 
plain by  what  accident  of  impulse  (assuredly  there  was  no  mo- 
tive in  play)  I  came  to  look  into  it.  Least  of  all,  the  title,  Odes 
and  Addresses  to  Great  Men,  which  connected  itself  in  my  head 
with  Rejected  Addresses,  and  all  the  Smith  and  Theodore  Hook 
squad.  But,  my  dear  Charles,  it  was  certainly  written  by  you, 
or  under  you,  or  una  cum  you.  I  know  none  of  your  frequent 
visitors  capacious  and  assimilative  enough  of  your  converse  to 
have  reproduced  you  so  honestly,  supposing  you  had  left  your- 
self in  pledge  in  his  lock-up  house.  Gillman,  to  whom  I  read 
the  spirited  parody  on  the  introduction  to  Peter  Bell,  the  Ode  to 
the  Great  Unknown,  and  to  Mrs.  Fry  ;  he  speaks  doubtfully  of 
Reynolds  and  Hood.    But  here  come  Irving  and  Basil  Montagu. 

"  Thursday  Night,  10  o'clock. — No  !  Charles,  it  is  you.  I  have 
read  them  over  again,  and  I  understand  why  you  have  anon'd 
the  book.  The  puns  are  nine  in  ten  good — many  excellent — 
the  Newgatory  transcendant.  And  then  the  exemplum  sine  exem- 
plo  of  a  volume  of  personalities  and  contemporaneities,  without 
a  single  line  that  could  inflict  the  infinitesimal  of  an  unpleasance 
on  any  man  in  his  senses  ;  saving  and  except  perhaps  in  the 
envy-addled  brain  of  the  despiser  of  your  Lays.  If  not  a  tri- 
umph over  him,  it  is  at  least  an  ovation.  Then,  moreover,  and 
besides,  to  speak  with  becoming  modesty,  excepting  my  own  self, 
who  is  there  but  you  who  could  write  the  musical  lines  and 
stanzas  that  are  intermixed  ? 

"  Here  Gillman,  come  up  to  my  garret,  and  driven  back  by  the 
guardian  spirits  of  four  huge  flower-holders  of  omnigenous  roses 
and  honeysuckles — (Lord  have  mercy  on  his  hysterical  olfacto- 
ries !  what  will  he  do  in  Paradise  ?  I  must  have  a  pair  or  two 
of  nostril  plugs,  or  nose-goggles  laid  in  his  coffin) — stands  at  the 
door,  reading  that  to  M'Adam,  and  the  washerwoman's  letter, 
and  he  admits  the  facts.  You  are  found  in  the  manner,  as  the 
lawyers  say  !  so,  Mr.  Charles !  hang  yourself  up,  and  send  me 
a  line,  by  way  of  token  and  acknowledgment.  My  dear  love  to 
Mary.    God  bless  you  and  your  Unshamabramizer, 

"  S.  T.  Coleridge." 


92  PROSE  AND  VERSE. 

It  may  be  mentioned  here,  that  instead  of  feeling  "  the  infini 
tesimal  of  an  unplcasance  "  at  being  Addressed  in  the  Odes, 
the  once  celebrated  Mr.  Hunt  presented  to  the  Authors,  a  boctle 
of  his  best  "  Permanent  Ink,"  and  the  eccentric  Doctor  Kitchiner 
sent  an  invitation  to  dinner. 

From  Colebrooke,  Lamb  removed  to  Enfield  Chase, — a  pain- 
ful operation  at  all  times,  for,  as  he  feelingly  misapplied  Words- 
worthj  "  the  moving  accident  was  not  his  trade."  As  soon  as  he 
was  settled,  I  called  upon  him,  and  found  him  in  a  bald-looking 
yellowish  house,  with  a  bit  of  a  garden,  and  a  wasp's  ntst  con- 
vanient,  as  the  Irish  say,  for  one  stung  my  pony  as  he  stood  at 
the  door.  Lamb  laughed  at  the  fun ;  but,  as  the  clown  says, 
the  whirligig  of  time  brought  round  its  revenges.  Fie  was  one 
day  bantering  my  wife  on  her  dread  of  wasps,  when  all  at  once 
he  uttered  a  horrible  shout, — a  wounded  specimen  of  the  species 
had  slily  crawled  up  the  leg  of  the  table,  and  stung  him  in  the 
thumb.  I  told  him  it  was  a  refutation  well  put  in,  like  Smollet's 
timely  snowball.  "  Yes,"  said  he,  "  and  a  stinging  commentary 
on  Macbeth — 

"By  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs, 
Something  wicked  this  way  comes.'* 

There  were  no  pastoral  yearnings  concerned  in  this  Enfield 
removal.  There  is  no  doubt  which  of  Captain  Morris's  Town 
and  Country  Songs  would  have  been  most  to  Lamb's  taste. 
"  The  sweet  shady  side  of  Pall-Mall"  would  have  carried  it  all 
hollow.  In  courtesy  to  a  friend,  he  would  select  a  green  lane 
for  a  ramble,  but  left  to  himself,  he  took  the  turnpike  road  as 
often  as  otherwise.  "  Scott,"  says  Cunningham,  "  was  a  stout 
walker."  Lamb  was  a  porter  one.  He  calculated  Distances, 
not  by  Long  Measure,  but  by  Ale  and  Beer  Measure.  "  Now 
I  have  walked  a  pint."  Many  a  time  I  have  accompanied  him 
in  these  matches  against  Meux,  not  without  sharing  in  the  stake, 
and  then,  what  cheerful  and  profitable  talk  !  For  instance,  he 
once  delivered  to  me  orally  the  substance  of  the  Essay  on  the 
Defect  of  Imagination  in  Modern  Artists,  subsequently  printed 
in  the  Athenoeum.    But  besides  the  criticism,  there  were  snatches 


LITERARY  REM  IN  i  SCEN  CES. 


of  old  poems,  golden  lines  and  sentences  culled  from  rare  books, 
and  anecdotes  of  men  of  note.  Marry,  it  was  like  going  a  ram- 
ble with  gentle  Izaak  Walton,  minus  the  fishing. 

To  make  these  excursions  more  deligi^ful  to  one  of  my  tem- 
perament, Lamb  never  affected  any  spurious  gravity.  Neither 
did  he  ever  act  the  Grand  Senior.  He  did  not  exact  that  com- 
mon copy-book  respect,  which  some  asinine  persons  would  fain 
command  on  account  of  the  mere  length  of  their  years.  As  if, 
forsooth,  what  is  bad  in  itself,  could  be  the  better  for  keeping , 
as  if  intellects  already  mothery,  got  anything  but  grandmothery 
by  lapse  of  time  !  In  this  particular,  he  was  opposed  to  Southey, 
or  rather  (for  Southey  has  been  opposed  to  himself),  to  his  Poem 
on  the  Holly  Tree. 

So  serious  should  my  youth  appear  among 
The  thoughtless  throng ; 
So  would  I  seem  among  the  young  and  gay 
More  grave  than  they. 

There  was  nothing  of  Sir  Oracle  about  Lamb.  On  the  con- 
trary, at  sight  of  a  solemn  visage  that  "  creamed  and  mantled 
like  a  standing  pool,"  he  was  the  first  to  pitch  a  mischievous 
stone  to  disturb  the  duck-weed.  "He  was  a  boy-man,"  as  he 
truly  said  of  Elia  ;  "  and  his  manners  lagged  behind  his  years." 
He  liked  to  herd  with  people  younger  than  himself.  Perhaps,  in 
his  fine  generalizing  way,  he  thought  that,  in  relation  to  Eter- 
nity, we  are  all  contemporaries.  However,  without  reckoning 
birthdays,  it  was  always  "Hail  fellow,  well  met;"  and  although 
he  was  my  elder  by  a  quarter  of  a  century,  he  never  made  me 
feel,  in  our  excursions,  that  I  was  "taking  a  walk  with  the 
schoolmaster."  I  remember,  in  one  of  our  strolls,  being  called 
to  account,  very  pompously,  by  the  proprietor  of  an  Enfield 
Villa,  who  asserted  that  my  dog  Dash,  who  never  hunted  any- 
thing in  his  dog-days,  had  chased  the  sheep ;  whereupon,  Elia 
taking  the  dog's  part,  said  very  emphatically,  "  Hunt  Lambs, 
sir  ?  Why  he  has  never  hunted  me  /"  But  he  was  always  ready 
for  fun,  intellectual  or  practical — now  helping  to  pelt  D  *  *  *  *  *, 
a  modern  Dennis,  with  puns ;  and  then  to  persuade  his  sister, 
God  bless  her !  by  a  vox  et  preterea  nihil,  that  she  was  as  deaf 


94 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


as  an  adder.  In  the  same  spirit,  being  requested  by  a  young 
Schoolmaster  to  take  charge  of  his  flock  for  a  day,  "  during  the 
unavoidable  absence  of  the  Principal,"  he  willingly  undertook 
the  charge,  but  made  no  other  use  of  his  "  brief  authority"  than 
to  give  the  boys  a  whole  holiday. 

As  Elia  supplied  the  place  of  the  Pedagogue,  so  once  I  was 
substitute  for  Lamb  himself.  A  prose  article  in  the  Gem  was 
not  from  his  hand,  though  it  bore  his  name.  He  had  promised 
a  contribution,  but  being  unwell,  his  sister  suggested  *hat  I 
should  write  something  for  him,  and  the  result  was  the  "  Widow" 
in  imitation  of  his  manner.  It  will  be  seen  that  the  forgery  was 
taken  in  good  part. 

"  Dear  Lamb, — You  are  an  impudent  varlet,  but  I  will  keep 
your  secret.  We  dine  at  Ayrton's  on  Thursday,  and  shall  try 
to  find  Sarah  and  her  two  spare  beds  for  that  night  only.  Miss 
M.  and  her  Tragedy  may  be  dished,  so  may  not  you  and  your 
rib.    Health  attend  you.  Yours, 

Enfield.  T.  Hood,  Esq. 

Miss  Bridget  Hood  sends  love." 

How  many  of  such  pleasant  reminiscences  revive  in  my 
memory,  whilst  thinking  of  him,  like  secret  writing  brought  out 
by  the  kindly  warmth  of  the  fire  !  But  they  must  be  deferred  to 
leave  me  time  and  space  for  other  attributes — for  example,  his 
charity,  in  its  widest  sense,  the  moderation  in  judgment  which, 
as  Miller  says,  is  "  the  Silken  String  running  through  the  Pearl 
Chain  of  all  Virtues."  If  he  was  intolerant  of  anything,  it  was 
of  Intolerance.  He  would  have  been  (if  the  foundation  had  ex- 
isted, save  in  the  fiction  of  Rabelais)  of  the  Utopian  order  of 
Thelemites,  where  each  man  under  scriptural  warrant  did  what 
seemed  good  in  his  own  eyes.  He  hated  evil-speaking,  carping, 
and  petty  scandal.  On  one  occasion  having  slipped  out  an  anec- 
dote, to  the  discredit  of  a  literary  man,  during  a  very  confiden- 
tial conversation,  the  next  moment,  with  an  expression  of  remorse, 
for  having  impaired  even  my  opinion  of  the  party,  he  bound  me 
solemnly  to  buiy  the  story  in  my  own  bosom.  In  another  case 
he  characteristically  rebuked  the  backbiting  spirit  of  a  censori- 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


95 


ous  neighbor.  Some  Mrs.  Candor  telling  him,  in  expectation 
of  an  ill-natured  comment,  that  Miss  *  *  *,  the  teacher  at  the 
Ladies'  School,  had  married  a  publican.  "  Has  she  so  ?"  said 
Lamb,  "  then  I'll  have  my  beer  there !" 

"  As  to  his  liberality,  in  a  pecuniary  sense,  he  passed  (says 
Lamb  of  Elia)  with  some  people,  through  having  a  settled  but 
moderate  income,  for  a  great  miser.    And  in  trvth  he  knew  the 
value  of  money,  its  power,  its  usefulness.    One  January  night 
he  told  me  with  great  glee  that  at  the  end  of  the  late  year  he  had 
been  able  to  lay  by — and  then  proceeded  to  read  me  a  serio- 
comic lecture  on  the  text,  of  "  Keep  your  hand  out  of  your 
Pocket."    The  truth  is,  Lamb,  like  Shakspeare,  in  the  univer- 
sality of  his  sympathies,  could  feel,  pro  tempore,  what  belonged 
to  the  character  of  a  Gripe-all.    The  reader  will  remember  his 
capital  note  in  the  "  Dramatic  Specimens,"  on  "  the  decline  of 
Misers,  in  consequence  of  the  Platonic  nature  of  an  affection  for 
Money,"  since  Money  was  represented  by  "flimsies  "  instead  of 
substantial  coin,  the  good  old  solid  sonorous  dollars  and  doub- 
loons, and  pieces  of  eight,  that  might  be  handled,  and  hugged, 
and  rattled,  and  perhaps  kissed.    But  to  this  passion  for  hoard- 
ing he  one  day  attributed  a  new  origin.    "  A  Miser,"  he  said, 
"  is  sometimes  a  grand  personification  of  Fear.    He  has  a  fine 
horror  of  Poverty.    And  he  is  not  content  to  keep  Want  from 
the  door,  or  at  arm's  length, — but  he  places  it,  by  heaping  wealth 
upon  wealth,  at  a  sublime  distance  /"    Such  was  his  theory  :  now 
for  his  practice.    Amongst  his  other  guests,  you  occasionally 
saw  an  elderly  lady,  formal,  fair,  and  flaxen-wigged,  looking  re- 
markably like  an  animated  wax  doll, — and  she  did  visit  some 
friends,  or  relations,  at  a  toyshop  near  St.  Dunstan's.  When 
she  spoke,  it  was  as  if  by  an  artificial  apparatus,  through  some 
defect  in  her  palate,  and  she  had  a  slight  limp  and  a  twist  in  her 
figure,  occasioned — what  would  Hannah  More  have  said  ! — -by 
running  down  Greenwich  Hill !    This  antiquated  personage  had 
been  Lamb's  Schoolmistress — and  on  this  retrospective  conside- 
ration, though  she  could  hardly  have  taught  him  more  than  to 
read  his  native  tongue — he  allowed  her  in  her  decline,  a  yearly 
sum,  equal  to — what  shall  I  say  ? — to  the  stipend  which  some 
persons  of  fortune  deem  sufficient  for  the  active  services  of  an 


i>6 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


all-accomplished  gentlewoman  in  the  education  of  their  children. 
Say,  thirty  pounds  per  annum  ! 

Such  was  Charles  Lamb.  To  sum  up  his  character,  on  his 
own  principle  of  antagonising,  he  was,  in  his  views  of  human 
nature,  the  opposite  of  Crabbe  ;  in  Criticism,  of  GifFord  ;  in 
Poetry,  of  Lord  Byron  ;  in  Prose,  of  the  last  new  Novelist  ;  in 
Philosophy,  of  Kant ;  and  in  Religion,  of  Sir  Andrew  Agnew. 
Of  his  wit  I  have  endeavored  to  give  such  samples  as  occurred 
to  me  ;  but  the  spirit  of  his  sayings  was  too  subtle  and  too  much 
married  to  the  circumstances  of  the  time  to  survive  the  occasion. 
They  had  the  brevity  without  the  levity  of  wit — some  of  his  puns 
contained  the  germs  of  whole  essays.  Moreover,  like  Falstaff, 
he  seemed  not  only  witty  himself  but  the  occasion  of  it  by  exam- 
ple in  others.  "  There  isM******"  said  he,  "who  goes 
about  dropping  his  good  things  as  an  ostrich  lays  her  eggs  with- 
out caring  what  becomes  of  them."  It  was  once  my  good  for- 
tune to  pick  up  one  of  Mr.  M.'s  foundlings,  and  it  struck  me  as 
particularly  in  Lamb's  own  style,  containing  at  once  a  pun  and 
a  criticism.  "  What  do  you  think,"  asked  somebody,  "  of  the 
book  called  <  A  Day  in  Stowe  Gardens  V  "  Answer  :  "  A  Day 
ill  be-stowed." 

It  is  now  some  five  years  ago,  since  I  stood  with  other  mourn- 
ers in  Edmonton  Church  Yard,  beside  a  grave  in  which  all  that 
was  mortal  of  Elia  was  deposited.  It  may  be  a  dangerous  con- 
fession to  make,  but  I  shed  no  tear ;  and  scarcely  did  a  sigh 
escape  from  my  bosom.  There  were  many  sources  of  comfort. 
He  had  not  died  young.  He  had  happily  gone  before  that  noble 
sister,  who  not  in  selfishness,  but  the  devotion  of  a  unique  affec- 
tion, would  have  prayed  to  survive  him  but  for  a  day,  lest  he 
should  miss  that  tender  care  which  had  watched  over  him  up- 
wards from  a  little  child.  Finally  he  had  left  behind  him  his 
works,  a  rare  legacy  ! — and  above  all,  however  much  of  him 
had  departed,  there  was  still  more  of  him  that  could  not  die — 
for  as  long  as  Humanity  endures,  and  man  owns  fellowship  with 
man,  the  spirit  of  Charles  Lamb  will  still  be  extant ! 

****** 

On  the  publication  of  the  Odes  and  Addresses,  presentation 
copies  were  sent,  at  the  suggestion  of  a  friend,  to  Mr.  Canning 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


97 


and  Sir  Walter  Scott.  The  minister  took  no  notice  of  the  little 
volume  ;  but  the  novelist  did,  in  his  usual  kind  manner.  An 
eccentric  friend  in  writing  to  me,  once  made  a  number  of  colons, 
semicolons,  &c,  at  the  bottom  of  the  paper,  adding 

"  And  these  are  my  points  that  I  place  at  the  foot 
That  you  may  put  stops  that  I  cant  stop  to  put' 

It  will  surprise  no  one  to  observe  that  the  author  of  Waverley 
had  as  little  leisure  for  punctuation. 

"  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  to  make  thankful  acknowledgments 
for  the  copy  of  the  Odes  to  Great  People  with  which  he  was 
favored  and  more  particularly  for  the  amusement  he  has  re- 
ceived from  the  perusal.  He  wishes  the  unknown  author  good 
health  good  fortune  and  whatever  other  good  things  can  best 
support  and  encourage  his  lively  vein  of  inoffensive  and  humor- 
ous satire 

"Abbotsford  Melrose  4th  May  " 

The  first  time  I  ever  saw  the  Great  Unknown,  was  at  the  private 
view  of  Martin's  Picture  of  "  Nineveh," — when,  by  a  striking 
coincidence,  one  of  our  most  celebrated  women,  and  one  of  our 
greatest  men,  Mrs.  Siddons  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  walked  simul- 
taneously up  opposite  sides  of  the  room,  and  met  and  shook  hands 
in  front  of  ihe  painting.  As  Editor  of  the  Gem,  I  had  afterwards 
occasion  to  write  to  Sir  Walter,  from  whom  I  received  the  fol- 
lowing letter,  which  contains  an  allusion  to  some  of  his  charac- 
teristic partialities  : — 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Hood, — It  was  very  ungracious  in  me  to 
leave  you  in  a  day's  doubt  whether  I  was  gratified  or  otherwise 
with  the  honor  you  did  me  to  inscribe  your  whims  and  oddities 
to  me  I  received  with  great  pleasure  this  new  mark  of  your 
kindness  and  it  was  only  my  leaving  your  volume  and  letter  in 
the  country  which  delayed  my  answer  as  I  forgot  the  address 

"  I  was  favored  with  Mr.  Cooper's  beautiful  sketch  of  the  heart- 
piercing  incident  of  the  dead  greyhound  which  is  executed  with 
a  force  and  fancy  which  I  flatter  myself  that  I  who  was  in  my 
8 


98 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


younger  days  and  in  part  still  am  a  great  lover  of  dogs  and 
horses  and  an  accurate  observer  of  their  habits  can  appreciate. 
I  intend  the  instant  our  term  ends  to  send  a  few  verses  if  I  can 
make  any  at  my  years  in  acknowledgment.  I  will  get  a  day's 
leisure  for  this  purpose  next  week  when  I  expect  to  be  in  the 
country  Pray  inform  Mr.  Cooper  of  my  intention  though  I  fear 
I  will  be  unable  to  do  anything  deserving  of  the  subject.  I  am 
very  truly  your  obliged  humble  servant 

"  Edinburgh  4  March  Walter  Scott." 

At  last,  during  one  of  his  visits  *o  London,  I  had  the  h.nor  ot 
a  personal  interview  with  Sir  Walter  Scott  at  Mr.  Lockhart's, 
in  Sussex  Place.  The  number  of  the  house  had  escaped  my 
memory  ;  but  seeing  a  fine  dog  down  an  area,  I  knocked  without 
hesitation  at  the  door.  It  happened,  however,  to  be  the  wrong 
one.  I  afterwards  mentioned  the  circumstance  to  Sir  Walter. 
It  was  not  a  bad  point,  he  said,  for  he  was  very  fond  of  dogs ; 
but  he  did  not  care  to  have  his  own  animals  with  him,  about 
London,  "  for  fear  he  should  be  taken  for  Bill  Gibbons."  I 
then  told  him  I  had  lately  been  reading  the  Fair  Maid  of  Perth, 
which  had  reminded  me  of  a  very  pleasant  day  spent  many 
years  before,  beside  the  Linn  of  Campsie,  the  scene  of  Cona- 
char's  catastrophe.  Perhaps  he  divined  what  had  really  occur- 
red to  me, — that  the  Linn,  as  a  cataract,  had  greatly  disap- 
pointed me  ;  for  he  smiled,  and  shook  his  head  archly,  and  said 
he  had  since  seen  it  himself,  and  was  rather  ashamed  of  it. 
"  But  I  fear,  Mr.  Hood,  I  have  done  worse  than  that  before  now, 
in  finding  a  Monastery  where  there  was  none  to  be  found  ; 
though  there  was  plenty  (here  he  smiled  again)  of  Carduus 
Benedictus,  or  Holy  Thistle." 

In  the  mean  time  he  was  finishing  his  toilet,  in  order  to  dine 
at  the  Duchess  of  Kent's  ;  and  before  he  put  on  his  cravat  I  had 
an  opportunity  of  noticing  the  fine  massive  proportions  of  his 
bust.  It  served  to  confirm  me  in  my  theory  that  such  mighty 
men  are,  and  must  be,  physically,  as  well  as  intellectually, 
gifted  beyond  ordinary  mortals  ;  that  their  strong  minds  must  be 
backed  by  strong  bodies.  Remembering  all  that  Sir  Walter 
Scott  had  done,  and  all  that  he  had  suffered,  methought  he  had 


LITERARY  REMINISCENCES. 


99 


been  in  more  than  one  sense  "  a  Giant  in  the  Land."  After 
some  more  conversation,  in  the  course  of  which  he  asked  rne  if 
I  ever  came  to  Scotland,  and  kindly  said  he  should  be  glad  to 
see  me  at  Abbotsford,  I  took  my  leave,  with  flattering  dreams  in 
my  head  that  never  were,  and  now,  alas  !  never  can  be,  realized  ! 
***** 
And  now,  not  to  conclude  in  too  melancholy  a  tone,  allow  me, 
gentle  reader,  to  present  to  you  the  following  genuine  letter,  the 
names,  merely,  for  obvious  reasons,  being  disguised. 

To  T.  Hood,  Esq. 

"  Thou'rt  a  comical  chap — so  am  I ;  but  thou  possessest  brains 
competent  to  write  what  I  mean  ; — I  don't — therefore  Brother 
Comic  wilt  thou  oblige  me  (if  'twas  in  my  power  I  would  you) — 
I'll  tell  you  just  what  I  want,  and  no  more.  Of  late,  Lord  *  *  * 
has  been  endeavoring  to  raise  a  body  of  yeomanry  in  this  coun- 
ty. Now  there's  a  man  at  Bedfont — a  compounder  of  nauseous 
drugs — and  against  whom  I  owe  a  grudge,  who  wishes  to  enter, 
but  who's  no  more  fit  for  a  fighter  than  I  for  a  punster.  Now  if 
you  will  just  give  him  a  palpable  hit  or  two  in  verse,  and  trans- 
mit them  to  me  by  post,  directed  to  A.  B.,  Post  Office,  Bedfont, 
your  kindness  shall  ever  be  remembered  with  feelings  of  the 
deepest  sincerity  and  gratitude.  His  name  is  1  Jambs  Booker, 
Chemist,'  Bedfont  of  course.  If  you  disapprove  of  the  above,  I 
trust  you  will  not  abuse  the  confidence  placed  in  you,  by  '  split- 
ting.' You'll  say,  how  can  I  ? — by  showing  this  letter  to  him. 
He  knows  the  hand-writing  full  well — but  you'll  not  do  so,  I 
hope.  Perhaps,  if  you  feel  a  disposition  to  oblige  me,  you  will 
do  so  at  your  first  convenience,  ere  the  matter  will  be  getting 
stale. 

Yours  truly, 

A.  B. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  let  me  have  an  answer 
from  you,  even  if  you  will  not  condescend  to  accede  to  my  wish. 

"  Perhaps  you've  not  sufficient  particulars.  He's  a  little  fel- 
low, flushed  face,  long  nose,  precious  ugly,  housekeeper  as  ugly, 
lives  between  the  two  Peacock  Inns,  is  a  single  man,  very  anx- 


100 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


ious  to  get  possession  of  Miss  Boltbee,  a  ward  in  Chancery  with 
something  like  9000Z.  (wish  he  may  get  it),  is  famous  for  his 
Gout  Medicine,  sells  jalap  (should  like  to  make  him  swallow  an 
ounce),  always  knows  other  people's  business  better  than  his 
own,  used  to  go  to  church,  now  goes  to  chapel,  and  in  the  whole 
is  a  great  rascal. 

"  Bedfont  is  thirteen  miles  from  London." 


THE  LOST  HEIR. 


101 


THE  LOST  HEIR. 

•*  Oh  where,  and  oh  where, 
Is  my  bonny  laddie  gone  ?"— Old  Song. 


One  day,  as  I  was  going  by 

That  part  of  Hoi  born  christened  High, 

I  heard  a  Joud  and  sudden  cry 

That  chilPd  my  very  blood  ; 

And  lo !  from  out  a  dirty  alley, 

Where  pigs  and  Irish  wont  to  rally, 

I  saw  a  crazy  woman  sally, 

Bedaub'd  with  grease  and  mud. 

She  turn'd  her  East,  she  turn'd  her  West, 

Staring  like  Pythoness  possest, 

With  streaming  hair  and  heaving  breast, 

As  one  stark  mad  with  grief. 

This  way  and  that  she  wildly  ran, 

Jostling  with  woman  and  with  man — 

Her  right  hand  held  a  frying-pan, 

The  left  a  lump  of  beef. 

At  last  her  frenzy  seem'd  to  reach 

A  point  just  capable  of  speech, 

And  with  a  tone  almost  a  screech, 

As  wild  as  ocean  birds, 

Or  female  Ranter  mov'd  to  preach, 

She  gave  her  "  sorrow  words." 

"  O  Lord  !  O  dear,  my  heart  will  break,  I  shall  go  stick  stark 
staring  wild ! 


102 


PROSE  AND  V  ERSE. 


Has  ever  a  one  seen  anything  about  the  streets  like  a  crying 

lost-looking  child  ? 
Lawk  help  me,  I  don't  know  where  to  look,  or  to  run,  if  I  only 

knew  which  way — 
A  Child  as  is  lost  about  London  streets,  and  especially  Seven 

Dials,  is  a  needle  in  a  bottle  of  hay. 
I  am  all  in  a  quiver — get  out  of  my  sight,  do,  you  wretch,  you 

little  Kitty  M'Nab! 
You  promised  to  have  half  an  eye  to  him,  you  know  you  did, 

you  dirty  deceitful  young  drab. 
The  last  time  as  ever  I  see  him,  poor  thing,  was  with  my  own 

blessed  Motherly  eyes, 
Sitting  as  good  as  gold  in  the  gutter,  a  playing  at  making  little 

dirt  pies. 

I  wonder  he  left  the  court  where  he  was  better  off  than  all  the 

other  young  boys, 
With  two  bricks,  an  old  shoe,  nine  oyster-shells,  and  a  dead  kitten 

by  way  of  toys. 

When  his  Father  comes  home,  and  he  always  comes  home  as 

sure  as  ever  the  clock  strikes  one, 
He'll  be  rampant,  he  will,  at  his  child  being  lost ;  and  the  beef 

and  the  inguns  not  done  ! 
La  bless  you,  good  folks,  mind  your  own  consarns,  and  don't  be 

making  a  mob  in  the  street ; 
O  serjeant  M'Farlane !  you  have  not  come  across  my  poor  little 

boy,  have  you,  in  your  beat  1 
Do,  good  people,  move  on  !  don't  stand  staring  at  me  like  a 

parcel  of  stupid  stuck  pigs ; 
Saints  forbid !  but  he 's  p'r'aps  been  inviggled  away  up  a  court 

for  the  sake  of  his  clothes  by  the  prigs ; 
He'd  a  very  good  jacket,  for  certain,  for  I  bought  it  myself  for 

a  shilling  one  day  in  Rag  Fair ; 
And  his  trowsers  considering  not  very  much  patch'd,  and  red 

plush,  they  was  once  his  Father's  best  pair. 
His  shirt,  it 's  very  lucky  I 'd  got  washing  in  the  tub,  or  that 

might  have  gone  with  the  rest ; 
But  he 'd  got  on  a  very  good  pinafore  with  only  two  slits  and  a 

burn  on  the  breast. 


THE  LOST  HEIR 


103 


He 'd  a  goodish  sort  of  hat,  if  the  crown  was  sew'd  in,  and  not 

quite  so  much  jagg'd  at  the  brim. 
With  one  shoe  on,  and  the  other  shoe  is  a  boot,  and  not  a  fit, 

and  you  '11  know  by  that  if  it 's  him. 
Except  being  so  well  dress'd,  my  mind  would  misgive,  some  old 

beggar  woman  in  want  of  an  orphan, 
Had  borrow'd  the  child  to  go  a  begging  with,  but  I 'd  rather  see 

him  laid  out  in  his  coffin  ! 
Do,  good  people,  move  on,  such  a  rabble  of  boys !  I'll  break 

every  bone  of  'em  I  come  near, 
Go  home — you  're  spilling  the  porter — go  home — Tommy  Jones, 

go  along  home  with  your  beer. 
This  day  is  the  sorrowfullest  day  of  my  life,  ever  since  my 

name  was  Betty  Morgan, 
Them  vile  Savoyards  !  they  lost  him  once  before  all  along  of 

following  a  Monkey  and  an  Organ : 
O  my  Billy — my  head  will  turn  right  round — if  he's  got  kid- 

dynapp'd  with  them  Italians, 
They  '11  make  him  a  plaster  parish  image  boy,  they  will,  the 

outlandish  tatterdemalions. 
Billy — where  are  you,  Billy  ? — I'm  as  hoarse  as  a  crow,  with 

screaming  for  ye,  you  young  sorrow  ! 
And  shan't  have  half  a  voice,  no  more  I  shan't,  for  crying  fresh 

herrings  to-morrow. 

0  Billy,  you  're  bursting  my  heart  in  two,  and  my  life  won't  be 

of  no  more  vally, 
If  I'm  to  see  other  folks'  darlins,  and  none  of  mine,  playing 

like  angels  in  our  alley, 
And  what  shall  I  do  but  cry  out  my  eyes,  when  I  looks  at  the 

old  three-legged  chair 
As  Billy  used  to  make  coach  and  horses  of,  and  there  a'n't  no 

Billy  there ! 

1  would  run  all  the  wide  world  over  to  find  him,  if  I  only  know'd 

where  to  run, 

Little  Murphy,  now  I  remember,  was  once  lost  for  a  month 

through  stealing  a  penny  bun, — 
The  Lord  forbid  of  any  child  of  mine  !    I  think  it  would  kill  me 

raily, 


104 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


To  find  my  Bill  holdin'  up  his  little  innocent  hand  at  the  Old 
Baily. 

For  though  I  say  it  as  oughtn't,  yet  I  will  say,  you  may  search 

for  miles  and  mileses 
And  not  find  one  better  brought  up,  and  more  pretty  behaved, 

from  one  end  to  t'other  of  St.  Giles's. 
And  if  I  called  him  a  beauty,  it's  no  lie,  but  only  as  a  Mother 

ought  to  speak ; 

You  never  set  eyes  on  a  more  handsomer  face,  only  it  hasn't 

been  washed  for  a  week  ; 
As  for  hair,  tho'  it's  red,  it's  the  most  nicest  hair  when  I've  time 

to  just  show  it  the  comb ; 
I'll  owe  'em  five  pounds,  and  a  blessing  besides,  as  will  only 

bring  him  safe  and  sound  home. 
He's  blue  eyes,  and  not  to  be  call'd  a  squint,  though  a  little  cast 

he's  certainly  got ; 
And  his  nose  is  still  a  good  un,  tho'  the  bridge  is  broke,  by  his 

falling  on  a  pewter  pint  pot ; 
He's  got  the  most  elegant  wide  mouth  in  the  world,  and  very 

large  teeth  for  his  age  ; 
And  quite  as  fit  as  Mrs.  Murdockson's  child  to  play  Cupid  on  the 

Drury  Lane  Stage. 
And  then  he  has  got  such  dear  winning  ways — but  O  I  never, 

never  shall  see  him  no  more  ! 
O  dear !  to  think  of  losing  him  just  after  nussing  him  back  from 

death's  door ! 

Only  the  very  last  month  when  the  windfalls,  hang  'em,  was  at 

twenty  a  penny ! 
And  the  threepence  he'd  got  by  grottoing  was  spent  in  plums, 

and  sixty  for  a  child  is  too  many. 
And  the  Cholera  man  came  and  whitewash'd  us  all  and,  drat 

him,  made  a  seize  of  our  hog. — 
It's  no  use  to  send  the  Cryer  to  cry  him  about,  he's  such  a 

blunderin'  drunken  old  dog  ; 
The  last  time  he  was  fetched  to  find  a  lost  child,  he  was  guzzling 

with  his  bell  at  the  Crown, 
And  went  and  cried  a  boy  instead  of  a  girl,  for  a  distracted 

Mother  and  Father  about  Town. 


THE  LOST  HEIR. 


105 


Billy — where  are  you,  Billy,  1  say  .  come  Billy,  come  home,  to 

your  best  of  Mothers  ! 
Vm  scared  when  I  think  of  them  Cabroleys,  they  drive  so,  they'd 

run  over  their  own  Sisters  and  Brothers. 
Or  may  be  he's  stole  by  some  chimbly  sweeping  wretch,  to  stick 

fast  in  narrow  flues  and  what  not, 
And  be  poked  up  behind  with  a  picked  pointed  pole,  when  the 

soot  has  ketch'd,  and  the  chimbly's  red  hot. 
Oh  I'd  give  the  whole  wide  world,  if  the  world  was  mine,  to  clap 

my  two  longin*  eyes  on  his  face, 
For  he's  my  darlin  of  darlins,  and  if  he  don't  soon  come  back, 

you'll  see  me  drop  stone  dead  on  the  place. 
I  only  wish  I'd  got  him  safe  in  these  two  Motherly  arms,  and 

wouldn't  I  hug  him  and  kiss  him ! 
Lauk !  I  never  knew  what  a  precious  he  was — but  a  child  don't 

not  feel  like  a  child  till  you  miss  him. 
Why  there  he  is !  Punch  and  Judy  hunting,  the  young  wretch, 

it's  that  Billy  as  sartin  as  sin ! 
But  let  me  get  him  home,  with  a  good  grip  of  his  hair,  and  I'm 

blest  if  he  shall  have  a  whole  bone  in  his  skin  ! 


106 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 
/ 


AN  UNDERTAKER, 


Is  an  illwiller  to  the  Human  Race.  He  is  by  Profession  an 
Enemy  to  his  Species,  and  can  no  more  look  kindly  at  his  Fel- 
lows than  the  Sheriff's  Officer  ;  for  why,  his  Profit  begins  with 
an  arrest  for  the  Debt  of  Nature.  As  the  Bailiff  looks  on  a 
failing  Man,  so  doth  he,  and  with  the  same  Hope,  namely,  to 
take  the  Body. 

Hence  hath  he  little  Sympathy  with  his  Kind,  small  Pity  for 
the  Poor,  and  least  of  all  for  the  widow  and  the  orphans,  whom 
he  regards  Planter  like,  but  as  so  many  Blacks  on  his  Estate. 
If  he  have  any  Community  of  Feeling,  it  is  with  the  Sexton, 
who  has  likewise  a  Per  Centage  on  the  Bills  of  Mortality,  and 
never  sees  a  Picture  of  Health  but  he  longs  to  ingrave  it.  Both 
have  the  same  quick  Ear  for  a  Churchyard  Cough,  and  both 
the  same  Relish  for  the  same  Music,  to  wit,  the  Toll  of  Saint 
Sepulchre.  Moreover  both  go  constantly  in  black — howbeit  'tis 
no  Mourning  Suit  but  a  Livery — for  he  grieves  no  more  for  the 
Defunct  than  the  Bird  of  the  same  Plumage,  that  is  the  Under- 
taker to  a  dead  Horse. 

As  a  Neighbor  he  is  to  be  shunned.  To  live  opposite  to  him 
is  to  fall  under  the  Evil  Eye.  Like  the  Witch  that  fbrespeaks 
other  Cattle,  he  would  rot  you  as  soon  as  look  at  you,  if  it  could 
be  done  at  a  Glance  ;  but  that  Magic  being  out  of  Date,  he 
contents  himself  with  choosing  the  very  Spot  on  the  House 
Front  that  shall  serve  for  a  Hatchment.  Thenceforward  he 
watches  your  going  out  and  your  coming  in  :  your  rising  up 
and  your  lying  down,  and  all  your  Domestic  Imports  of  Drink 
and  Victual,  so  that  the  veriest  She  Gossip  in  the  Parish  is  not 
more  familiar  with  vour  Modes  and  Means  of  Living,  nor  knows 


AN  UNDERTAKER. 


107 


so  certainly  whether  the  Visitor,  that  calls  daily  in  his  Chariot, 
is  a  mere  Friend  or  a  Physician.  Also  he  knows  your  Age  to 
a  Year,  and  your  Height  to  an  Inch,  for  he  hath  measured  you 
with  his  Eye  for  a  Coffin,  and  your  Ponderosity  to  a  Pound,  for 
he  hath  an  Interest  in  the  Dead  Weight,  and  hath  so  far  inquired 
into  your  Fortune  as  to  guess  with  what  Equipage  you  shall 
travel  on  your  last  Journey.  For,  in  professional  Curiosity,  he 
is  truly  a  Pall  Pry.  Wherefore  to  dwell  near  him  is  as  melan- 
choly as  to  live  in  view  of  a  Churchyard  ;  to  be  within  Sound 
of  his  Hammering  is  to  hear  the  Knocking  at  Death's  Door. 

To  be  friends  with  an  Undertaker  is  as  impossible  as  to  be 
the  Crony  of  a  Crocodile.  He  is  by  Trade  a  Hypocrite,  and 
deals  of  Necessity  in  Mental  Reservations  and  Equivoques. 
Thus  he  drinks  to  your  good  Health,  but  hopes,  secretly,  it  will 
not  endure.  He  is  glad  to  find  you  so  hearty — as  to  be  Apoplec- 
tic ;  and  rejoices  to  see  you  so  stout — with  a  short  Neck.  He 
bids  you  beware  of  your  old  Gout — and  recommends  a  Quack 
Doctor.  He  laments  the  malignant  Fever  so  prevalent — and 
wishes  you  may  get  it.  He  compliments  your  Complexion — 
when  it  is  Blue  or  Yellow  :  admires  your  upright  Carriage, — 
and  hopes  it  will  break  down.  Wishes  you  good  Day,  but 
means  everlasting  Night ;  and  commends  his  Respects  to  your 
Father  and  Mother — but  hopes  you  do  not  honor  them.  In  short, 
his  good  Wishes  are  treacherous  ;  his  Inquiries  are  suspicious  ; 
and  his  Civilities  are  dangerous  ;  as  when  he  proffereth  the  Use 
of  his  Coach — or  to  see  you  Home. 

For  the  rest,  he  is  still  at  odds  with  Humanity  ;  at  constant 
issue  with  its  Naturalists,  and  its  Philanthropists,  its  Sages,  its 
Counsellors,  and  its  Legislators.  For  example,  he  praises  the 
Weather — with  the  Wind  at  East ;  and  rejoices  in  a  wet  Spring 
and  Fall,  for  Death  and  he  reap  with  one  Sickle,  and  have  a 
good  or  a  bad  Harvest  in  common.  He  objects  not  to  Bones  in 
Bread  (being  as  it  were  his  own  Diet),  nor  to  ill  Drugs  in  Beer, 
nor  to  Sugar  of  Lead  or  arsenical  Finings  in  Wine,  nor  to 
ardent  Spirits,  nor  to  interment  in  Churches.  Neither  doth 
he  discountenance  the  Sitting  on  Infants  ;  nor  the  Swallowing 
of  Plum  Stones ;  nor  of  cold  Ices  at  Hot  balls, — nor  the 
drinking  of  Embrocations,  nay  he  hath  been  known  to  contend 


108 


PROSE  AIND  VERSE. 


that  the  wrong  Dose  was  the  right  one.  He  approves,  contra 
the  Physicians,  of  a  damp  Bed,  and  wet  Feet. — of  a  hot  Head 
and  cold  Extremities,  and  lends  his  own  Countenance  to  the 
Natural  Small  Pox,  rather  than  encourage  Vaccination — which 
he  calls  flying  in  the  Face  of  Providence.  Add  to  these,  a  free 
Trade  in  Poisons,  whereby  the  Oxalic  Crystals  may  currently 
become  Proxy  for  the  Epsom  ones ;  and  the  corrosive  Sublimate 
as  common  as  Salt  in  Porridge.  To  the  same  End  he  would 
give  unto  every  Cockney  a  Privilege  to  shoot,  within  ten  miles 
round  London,  without  a  Taxed  License,  and  would  never 
concur  in  a  Fine  or  Deodand  for  Fast  Driving,  except  the 
Vehicle  were  a  Hearse.  Thus,  whatever  the  popular  Cry, 
he  runs  counter :  a  Heretic  in  Opinion,  and  a  Hypocrite  in 
Practice,  as  when  he  pretends  to  be  sorrowful  at  a  Funeral ; 
or,  what  is  worse,  affects  to  pity  the  ill-paid  Poor,  and  yet 
helpeth  to  screw  them  down. 

To  conclude,  he  is  a  Personage  of  ill  presage  to  the  House 
of  Life  :  a  Raven  on  the  Chimney  Pot — a  Dead-watch  in  the 
Wainscot, — a  Winding  Sheet  in  the  Candle.  To  meet  with  him 
is  ominous.  His  looks  are  sinister ;  his  Dress  is  lugubrious  ; 
his  Speech  is  prophetic  ;  and  his  Touch  is  mortal.  Neverthe- 
less he  hath  one  Merit,  and  in  this  our  World,  and  in  these  our 
Times,  it  is  a  main  one  ;  namely,  that  whatever  he  Undertakes 
he  Performs. 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG.  109 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 

A  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


"  What  is  here  ? 
Gold  !  yellow,  glittering,  precious  gold  ?" 

Timon  of  Athens. 

HER  PEDIGREE, 

To  trace  the  Kilmansegg  pedigree, 
To  the  very  root  of  the  family  tree, 

Were  a  task  as  rash  as  ridiculous : 
Through  antediluvian  mists  as  thick 
As  London  fog  such  a  line  to  pick 
Were  enough,  in  truth,  to  puzzle  Old  Nick, 

Not  to  name  Sir  Harris  Nicholas. 

It  wouldn't  require  much  verbal  strain 
To  trace  the  Kill-man,  perchance,  to  Cain ; 

But  waving  all  such  digressions, 
Suffice  it,  according  to  family  lore, 
A  Patriarch  Kilmansegg  lived  of  yore, 

Who  was  famed  for  his  great  possessions. 

Tradition  said  he  feather'd  his  nest 
Through  an  Agricultural  Interest 

In  the  Golden  Age  of  Farming  ; 
When  golden  eggs  were  laid  by  the  geese, 
And  Colchian  sheep  wore  a  golden  fleece, 
And  golden  pippins — the  sterling  kind 
Of  Hesperus — now  so  hard  to  find — 

Made  Horticulture  quite  charming ! 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


A  Lord  of  Land,  on  his  own  estate, 
He  lived  at  a  very  lively  rate, 

But  his  income  would  bear  carousing ; 
Such  acres  he  had  of  pasture  and  heath, 
With  herbage  so  rich  from  the  ore  beneath, 
The  very  ewe's  and  lambkin's  teeth 

Were  turn'd  into  gold  by  browsing. 

He  gave,  without  any  extra  thrift, 
A  flock  of  sheep  for  a  birthday  gift 

To  each  son  of  his  loins,  or  daughter  : 
And  his  debts — if  debts  he  had — at  will 
He  liquidated  by  giving  each  bill 

A  dip  in  Pactolian  water. 

'Twas  said  that  even  his  pigs  of  lead, 
By  crossing  with  some  by  Midas  bred, 

Made  a  perfect  mine  of  his  piggery. 
And  as  for  cattle,  one  yearling  bull 
Was  worth  all  Smithfield-market  full 

Of  the  Golden  Bulls  of  Pope  Gregory. 

The  high-bred  horses  within  his  stud, 
Like  human  creatures  of  birth  and  blood, 

Had  their  Golden  Cups  and  flagons : 
And  as  for  the  common  husbandry  nags, 
Their  noses  were  tied  in  money-bags, 

When  they  stopp'd  with  the  carts  and  wagons. 

Moreover,  he  had  a  Golden  Ass, 
Sometimes  at  stall,  and  sometimes  at  grass, 

That  was  worth  his  own  weight  in  money— 
And  a  golden  hive,  on  a  Golden  Bank, 
Where  golden  bees,  by  alchemical  prank, 
Gather'd  gold  instead  of  honey. 

Gold  !  and  gold  !  and  gold  without  end  ! 
He  had  gold  to  lay  by,  and  gold  to  spend, 
Gold  to  give,  and  gold  to  lend, 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG         11 1 


And  reversions  of  gold  infuturo. 
In  wealth  the  family  revell'd  and  roll'd, 
Himself  and  wife  and  sons  so  bold  ; — 
And  his  daughters  sang  to  their  harps  of  gold 

"  O  bella  eta  del'  oro !" 

Such  was  the  tale  of  the  Kilmansegg  Kin, 

In  golden  text  on  a  vellum  skin, 

Though  certain  people  would  wink  and  grin, 

And  declare  the  whole  story  a  parable — 
That  the  ancestor  rich  was  one  Jacob  Ghrimes, 
Who  held  a  long  lease,  in  prosperous  times, 

Of  acres,  pasture  and  arable. 

That  as  money  makes  money,  his  golden  bees 
Were  the  five  per  cents,  or  which  you  please, 

When  his  cash  was  more  than  plenty — 
That  the  golden  cups  were  racing  affairs  ; 
And  his  daughters,  who  sang  Italian  airs, 

Had  their  golden  harps  of  Clementi. 

That  the  Golden  Ass,  or  Golden  Bull, 
Was  English  John,  with  his  pockets  full, 

Then  at  war  by  land  and  water  : 
While  beef,  and  mutton,  and  other  meat, 
Were  almost  as  dear  as  money  to  eat, 
And  Farmers  reaped  Golden  Harvests  of  wheat 

At  the  Lord  knows  what  per  quarter  ! 

HER  BIRTH. 

What  different  dooms  our  birthdays  bring  ! 
For  instance,  one  little  manikin  thing 

Survives  to  wear  many  a  wrinkle  ; 
While  Death  forbids  another  to  wake, 
And  a  son  that  it  took  nine  moons  to  make 

Expires  without  even  a  twinkle  ! 

Into  this  world  we  come  like  ships, 

Launch'd  from  the  docks,  and  stocks,  and  slips; 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


For  fortune  fair  or  fatal ; 
And  one  little  craft  is  cast  away 
In  its  very  first  trip  to  Babbicome  Bay, 

While  another  rides  safe  at  Port  Natal. 

What  different  lots  our  stars  accord  ! 

This  babe  to  be  hail'd  and  woo'd  as  a  Lord  ! 

And  that  to  be  shunned  like  a  leper ! 
One  to  the  world's  wine,  honey  and  corn, 
Another,  like  Colchester  native,  born 

To  its  vinegar,  only,  and  pepper. 

One  is  litter'd  under  a  roof 
Neither  wind  nor  water  proof, — 

That's  the  prose  of  Love  in  a  Cottage  — 
A  puny,  naked,  shivering  wretch, 
The  whole  of  whose  birthright  would  not  fetch, 
Though  Robins  himself  drew  up  the  sketch, 

The  bid  of  "  a  mess  of  pottage." 

Born  of  Fortunatus's  kin, 
Another  comes  tenderly  usher'd  in 

To  a  prospect  all  bright  and  burnishM  : 
No  tenant  he  for  life's  back  slums — 
He  comes  to  the  world  as  a  gentleman  comes 

To  a  lodging  ready  furnish'd. 

And  the  other  sex — the  tender — the  fair — 
What  wide  reverses  of  fate  are  there 
Whilst  Margaret,  charm'  by  the  Bulbul  rare, 

In  a  garden  of  Gul  reposes — 
Poor  Peggy  hawks  nosegays  from  street  to  street, 
Till — think  of  that,  who  find  life  so  sweet ! — 

She  hates  the  smell  of  roses  ! 

Not  so  with  the  infant  Kilmansegg  ! 
She  was  not  born  to  steal  or  beg, 

Or  gather  cresses  in  ditches ; 
To  plait  the  straw,  or  bind  the  shoe, 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


Or  sit  all  day  to  hem  and  sew, 
As  females  must,  and  not  a  few — 
To  fill  their  insides  with  stitches  ; 

She  was  not  doom'd,  for  bread  to  eat, 

To  be  put  to  her  hands  as  well  as  her  feet — 

To  carry  home  linen  from  mangles — 
Or  heavy-hearted,  and  weary-limb'd, 
To  dance  on  a  rope  in  a  jacket  trimm'd 

With  as  many  blows  as  spangles. 

She  was  one  of  those  who  by  Fortune's  boon 
Are  born,  as  they  say,  with  a  silver  spoon 

In  her  mouth,  not  a  wooden  ladle  : 
To  speak  according  to  poet's  wont, 
Plutus  as  sponsor  stood  at  her  font, 

And  Midas  rock'd  the  cradle. 

At  her  first  dtbut  she  found  her  head 
On  a  pillow  of  down,  in  a  downy  bed, 

With  a  damask  canopy  over. 
For  although  by  the  vulgar  popular  saw 
All  mothers  are  said  to  be  "  in  the  straw," 

Some  children  are  born  in  clover. 

Her  very  first  draught  of  vital  air 
It  was  not  the  common  chamelion  fare 
Of  plebeian  lungs  and  noses, — 

No — her  earliest  sniff 

Of  this  world  was  a  whiff 
Of  the  genuine  Otto  of  Roses  ! 

When  she  saw  the  light  it  was  no  mere  ray 
Of  that  light  so  common — so  everyday — 

That  the  sun  each  morning  launches — 
But  six  wax  tapers  dazzled  her  eyes, 
From  a  thing — a  gooseberry  bush  for  size — 

With  a  golden  stem  and  branches. 


9 


114 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


She  was  born  exactly  at  half-past  two, 
As  witness'd  a  timepiece  in  or-molu 

That  stood  on  a  marble  table — 
Showing  at  once  the  time  of  day. 
And  a  team  of  Gildings  running  away 

As  fast  as  they  were  able, 
With  a  golden  God,  with  a  golden  Star, 
And  a  golden  Sp©ar,  in  a  golden  Car, 

According  to  Grecian  fable. 

Like  other  babes,  at  her  birth  she  cried ; 
Which  made  a  sensation  far  and  wide, 

Ay,  for  twenty  miles  around  her  ; 
For  though  to  the  ear  'twas  nothing  more 
Than  an  infant's  squall,  it  was  really  the  roar 
Of  a  Fifty-thousand  Pounder  ! 
It  shook  the  next  heir 
In  his  library  chair, 
And  made  him  cry,  "  Confound  her  V 

Of  signs  and  omens  there  was  no  dearth, 
Any  more  than  at  Owen  Glendower's  birth, 
Or  the  advent  of  other  great  people : 

Two  bullocks  dropp'd  dead, 

As  if  knock'd  on  the  head, 

And  barrels  of  stout 

And  ale  ran  about, 

And  the  village-bells  such  a  peal  rang  out, 
That  they  crack'd  the  village-steeple. 

In  no  time  at  all,  like  mushroom  spawn. 
Tables  sprang  up  all  over  the  lawn  ; 
Not  furnish'd  scantly  or  shabbily, 

But  on  scale  as  vast 

As  that  huge  repast, 

With  its  loads  and  cargoes 

Of  drink  and  botargoes, 
At  the  Birth  of  the  Babe  in  Rabelais. 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


Hundreds  of  men  were  turn'd  into  beasts, 
Like  the  guests  at  Circe's  horrible  feasts, 

By  the  magic  of  ale  and  cider  ; 
And  each  country  lass,  and  each  country  lad, 
Began  to  caper  and  dance  like  mad, 
And  even  some  old  ones  appear'd  to  have  had 

A  bite  from  the  Naples  Spider. 

Then  as  night  came  on, 

It  had  scared  King  John, 
Who  considered  such  signs  not  risible, 

To  have  seen  the  maroons, 

And  the  whirling  moons, 

And  the  serpents  of  flame, 

And  wheels  of  the  same, 
That  according  to  some  were  "  whizzable." 

Oh,  happy  Hope  of  the  Kilmanseggs  ! 
Thrice  happy  in  head,  and  body,  and  legs, 

That  her  parents  had  such  full  pockets ! 
For  had  she  been  born  of  Want  and  Thrift, 
For  care  and  nursing  all  adrift, 
It's  ten  to  one  she  had  had  to  make  shift 

With  rickets  instead  of  rockets  ! 

And  how  was  the  precious  Baby  drest  ? 

In  a  robe  of  the  East,  with  lace  of  the  West, 

Like  one  of  Croesus's  issue — 

Her  best  bibs  were  made 

Of  rich  gold  brocade, 
And  the  others  of  silver  tissue. 

And  when  the  Baby  inclined  to  nap 
She  was  lull'd  on  a  Gros  de  Naples  lap, 
By  a  nurse  in  a  modish  Paris  cap, 

Of  notions  so  exalted, 
She  drank  nothing  lower  than  Curaqoa, 
Maraschino,  or  pink  Noyau, 

And  on  principle  never  malted. 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


From  a  golden  boat,  with  a  golden  spoon, 
The  babe  was  fed  night,  morning,  and  noon  ; 

And  altho'  the  tale  seems  fabulous, 
'Tis  said  her  tops  and  bottoms  were  gilt, 
Like  the  oats  in  that  Stable-yard  Palace  built 

For  the  horses  of  Heliogabalus. 

And  when  she  took  to  squall  and  kick — 
For  pains  will  wring  and  pins  will  prick 

E'en  the  wealthiest  nabob's  daughter — 
They  gave  her  no  vulgar  Dalby  or  gin, 
But  liquor  with  leaf  of  gold  therein, 

Videlicet, — Dantzic  Water. 

In  short,  she  was  born,  and  bred,  and  nirrst, 
And  drest  in  the  best  from  the  very  first, 

To  please  the  genteelest  censor — 
And  then,  as  soon  as  strength  would  allow, 
Was  vaccinated,  as  babes  are  now, 
With  virus  ta'en  from  the  best-bred  cow 

Of  Lord  Althorp's — now  Earl  Spencer. 

HER  CHRISTENING. 

Though  Shakspeare  asks  us,  "  What's  in  a  name 
(As  if  cognomens  were  much  the  same), 

There's  really  a  very  great  scope  in  it. 
A  name  ? — why,  wasn't  there  Doctor  Dodd, 
That  servant  at  once  of  Mammon  and  God, 
Who  found  four  thousand  pounds  and  odd, 

A  prison — a  cart — and  a  rope  in  it  1 

A  name  ? — if  the  party  had  a  voice, 
What  mortal  would  be  a  Bugg  by  choice  ? 
As  a  Hogg,  a  Grubb,  or  a  Chubb  rejoice  ? 

Or  any  such  nauseous  blazon  ? 
Not  to  mention  many  a  vulgar  name,  - 
That  would  make  a  door-plate  blush  for  shame, 

If  door-plates  were  not  so  brazen  ! 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


117 


A  name  ? — it  has  more  than  nominal  worth, 
And  belongs  to  good  or  bad  luck  at  birth — 

As  dames  of  a  certain  degree  know, 
In  spite  of  his  Page's  hat  and  hose, 
His  Page's  jacket,  and  buttons  in  rows, 
Bob  only  sounds  like  a  page  of  prose 

Till  turn'd  into  Rupertino. 

Now  to  christen  the  infant  Kilmansegg, 
For  days  and  days  it  was  quite  a  plague, 

To  hunt  the  list  in  the  Lexicon  : 
And  scores  were  tried,  like  coin,  by  the  ring, 
Ere  names  were  found  just  the  proper  thin 

For  a  minor  rich  as  a  Mexican. 

Then  cards  were  sent,  the  presence  to  beg 
Of  all  the  kin  of  Kilmansegg, 

White,  yellow,  and  brown  relations : 
Brothers,  Wardens  of  City  Halls, 
And  Uncles — rich  as  three  Golden  Balls 

From  taking  pledges  of  nations. 

Nephews,  whom  Fortune  seem'd  to  bewitch, 

Rising  in  life  like  rockets — 
Nieces  whose  dowries  knew  no  hitch — 
Aunts  as  certain  of  dying  rich 

As  candles  in  golden  sockets — 
Cousins  German,  and  cousins'  sons, 
All  thriving  and  opulent — some  had  tons 

Of  Kentish  hops  in  their  pockets  ! 

For  money  had  stuck  to  the  race  through  life 
(As  it  did  to  the  bushel  when  cash  so  rife 
Pozed  Ali  Baba's  brother's  wife) — 

And  down  to  the  Cousins  and  Coz-lings, 
The  fortunate  brood  of  the  Kilmanseggs, 
As  if  they  had  come  out  of  golden  eggs, 

Were  all  as  wealthy  as  "  Goslings." 


118 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


It  would  fill  a  Court  Gazette  to  name 
What  East  and  West  End  people  came 

To  the  rite  of  Christianity : 
The  lofty  Lord,  and  the  titled  Dame, 

All  di'monds,  plumes,  and  urbanity  : 
His  Lordship  the  May'r  with  his  golden  chain 
And  two  Gold  Sticks,  and  the  Sheriffs  twain, 
Nine  foreign  Counts,  and  other  great  men 
With  their  orders  and  stars,  to  help  M  or  N 

To  renounce  all  pomp  and  vanity. 

To  paint  the  maternal  Kilmansegg 
The  pen  of  an  Eastern  Poet  would  beg, 

And  need  an  elaborate  sonnet ; 
How  she  sparkled  with  gems  whenever  she  stirred, 
And  her  head  niddle-noddled  at  every  word, 
And  seem'd  so  happy,  a  Paradise  Bird 

Had  nidificated  upon  it. 

And  Sir  Jacob  the  Father  strutted  and  bow'd, 
And  smiled  to  himself,  and  laugh'd  aloud, 

To  think  of  his  heiress  and  daughter — 
.  And  then  in  his  pockets  he  made  a  grope, 
And  then,  in  the  fulness  of  joy  and  hope, 
Seem'd  washing  his  hands  with  invisible  soap, 

In  imperceptible  water. 

He  had  roll'd  in  money  like  pigs  in  mud, 
Till  it  seemed  to  have  enter'd  into  his  blood 

By  some  occult  projection  : 
And  his  cheeks,  instead  of  a  healthy  hue, 
As  yellow  as  any  guinea  grew, 
Making  the  common  phrase  seem  true 

About  a  rich  complexion. 

And  now  came  the  nurse,  and  during  a  pause, 
Her  dead-leaf  satin  would  fitly  cause 

A  very  autumnal  rustle — 
So  full  of  figure,  so  full  of  fuss, 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG 


As  she  carried  about  the  babe  to  buss, 
She  seemed  to  be  nothing  but  bustle. 

A  wealthy  Nabob  was  God-papa, 

And  an  Indian  Begum  was  God-mamma, 

Whose  jewels  a  Queen  might  covet — 
And  the  Priest  was  a  Vicar,  and  Dean  withal 
Of  that  Temple  we  see  with  a  Golden  Ball, 

And  a  Golden  Cross  above  it. 

The  Font  was  a  bowl  of  American  Gold, 
Won  by  Raleigh  in  days  of  old, 

In  spite  of  Spanish  bravado  ; 
And  the  Book  of  Prayer  was  so  overrun 
With  gilt  devices,  it  shone  in  the  sun 
Like  a  copy — a  presentation  one — 

Of  Humboldt's  "  El  Dorado." 

Gold  !  and  gold  !  and  nothing  but  gold  ! 
The  same  auriferous  shrine  behold 

Wherever  the  eye  could  settle  ! 
On  the  walls — the  sideboard — the  ceiling-sky— 
On  the  gorgeous  footmen  standing  by, 
In  coats  to  delight  a  miner's  eye 

With  seams  of  the  precious  metal. 

Gold !  and  gold  !  and  besides  the  gold, 
The  very  robe  of  the  infant  told 
A  tale  of  wealth  in  every  fold, 

It  lapp'd  her  like  a  vapor ! 
So  fine  !  so  thin !  the  mind  at  a  loss 
Could  compare  it  to  nothing  except  a  cross 

Of  cobweb  with  bank-note  paper. 

Then  her  pearls — 'twas  a  perfect  sight,  forsooth, 
To  see  them,  like  "  the  dew  of  her  youth," 

In  such  a  plentiful  sprinkle. 
Meanwhile,  the  Vicar  read  through  the  form, 
And  gave  her  another,  not  over-warm, 

That  made  her  little  eyes  twinkle. 


120 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Then  the  babe  was  cross'd  and  bless'd  amain ; 
But  instead  of  the  Kate,  or  Ann,  or  Jane, 

Which  the  humbler  female  endorses — 
Instead  of  one  name,  as  some  people  prefix, 
Kilmansegg  went  at  the  tails  of  six, 

Like  a  carriage  of  state  with  its  horses. 

Oh,  then  the  kisses  she  got  and  hugs  ! 
The  golden  mugs  and  the  golden  jugs 

That  lent  fresh  rays  to  the  midges  ! 
The  golden  knives,  and  the  golden  spoons, 
The  gems  that  sparkled  like  fairy  boons, 
It  was  one  of  the  Kilmansegg's  own  saloons, 

But  looked  like  Rundell  and  Bridge's ! 

Gold  !  and  gold  !  the  new  and  the  old  ! 
The  company  ate  and  drank  from  gold, 

They  revelPd,  they  sang,  and  were  merry, 
And  one  of  the  Gold  Sticks  rose  from  his  chair, 
And  toasted  "  the  Lass  with  the  golden  hair," 

In  a  bumper  of  golden  Sherry. 

Gold  !  still  gold  !  it  rain'd  on  the  nurse, 
Who,  unlike  Danae,  was  none  the  worse ; 
There  was  nothing  but  guineas  glistening  ! 
Fifty  were  given  to  Doctor  James, 
For  calling  the  little  Baby  names, 
And  for  saying,  Amen  ! 
The  Clerk  had  ten, 
And  that  was  the  end  of  the  Christening. 

HER  CHILDHOOD. 

Our  youth !  our  childhood !  that  spring  of  springs ! 
'Tis  surely  one  of  the  blessedest  things 

That  nature  ever  invented  ! 
When  the  rich  are  wealthy  beyond  their  wealth, 
And  the  poor  are  rich  in  spirits  and  health, 

And  all  with  their  lots  contented ! 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


There's  little  Phelim.  he  sings  like  a  thrush, 
In  the  selfsame  pair  of  patchwork  plush, 

With  the  selfsame  empty  pockets, 
That  tempted  his  daddy  so  often  to  cut 
His  throat,  or  jump  in  the  water-butt — 
But  what  cares  Phelim  ?  an  empty  nut 

Would  sooner  bring  tears  to  their  sockets. 

Give  him  a  collar  without  a  skirt, 

That's  the  Irish  linen  for  shirt, 
And  a  slice  of  bread,  with  a  taste  of  dirt, 

That's  Poverty's  Irish  butter, 
And  what  does  he  lack  to  make  him  blest  ? 
Some  oyster-shells,  or  a  sparrow's  nest, 

A  candle-end  and  a  gutter. 

But  to  leave  the  happy  Phelim  alone, 
Gnawing,  perchance,  a  marrowless  bone, 

•For  which  no  dog  would  quarrel — 
Turn  we  to  little  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
Cutting  her  first  little  toothy-peg 
With  a  fifty  guinea  coral — 

A  peg  upon  which 

About  poor  and  rich 
Reflection  might  hang  a  moral. 

Born  in  wealth,  and  wealthily  nursed, 
Capp'd,  papp'd,  napp'd  and  lapp'd  from  the  first 

On  the  knees  of  Prodigality, 
Her  childhood  was  one  eternal  round 
Of  the  game  of  going  on  Tickler's  ground 

Picking  up  gold — in  reality. 

With  extempore  carts  she  never  play'd, 
Or  the  odds  and  ends  of  a  Tinker's  trade, 
Or  little  dirt  pies  and  puddings  made, 

Like  children  happy  and  squalid ; 
The  very  puppet  she  had  to  pet, 
Like  a  bait  for  the  "  Nix  my  Dolly J'  set 

Was  a  Dolly  of  gold — and  solid  I 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Gold  !  and  gold  !  'twas  the  burden  still ! 
To  gain  the  Heiress's  early  goodwill 
There  was  much  corruption  and  bribery — 

The  yearly  cost  of  her  golden  toys 
Would  have  given  to  half  London's  Charity  Boys 
And  Charity  Girls  the  annual  joys 

Of  a  holiday  dinner  at  Highbury. 

Bon-bons  she  ate  from  the  gilt  cornet ; 
And  gilded  queens  on  St.  Bartlemy's  day  ; 

Till  her  fancy  was  tinged  by  her  presents — 
And  first  a  goldfinch  excited  her  wish, 
Then  a  spherical  bowl  with  a  Golden  fish, 

And  then  two  Golden  Pheasants. 

Nay,  once  she  squall'd  and  scream'd  like  wild — 
And  it  shows  how  the  bias  we  give  to  a  child 
Is  a  thing  most  weighty  and  solemn  : — 
But  whence  was  wonder  or  blame  to  spring 
If  little  Miss  K., — after  such  a  swing — 
Made  a  dust  for  the  flaming  gilded  thing 
On  the  top  of  the  Fish  Street  column  ? 

HER  EDUCATION. 

According  to  metaphysical  creed, 

To  the  earliest  books  that  children  read 

For  much  good  or  much  bad  they  are  debtors — 
But  before  with  their  ABC  they  start, 
There  are  things  in  morals,  as  well  as  art, 
That  play  a  very  important  part — 

"  Impressions  before  the  letters." 

Dame  Education  begins  the  pile, 
Mayhap  in  the  graceful  Corinthian  style, 

But  alas  for  the  elevation  ! 
If  the  Lady's  maid  or  gossip  the  Nurse 
With  a  load  of  rubbish,  or  something  worse, 

Have  made  a  rotten  foundation. 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


Even  thus  with  Little  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
Before  she  learnt  her  E  for  egg, 

Ere  her  Governess  came,  or  her  Masters — 
Teachers  of  quite  a  different  kind 
Had  "cramm'd"  her  beforehand,  and  put  her  mind 

In  a  go-cart  on  golden  castors. 

Long  before  her  A  B  and  C, 

They  had  taught  her  by  heart  her  L.  S.  D., 

And  as  how  she  was  born  a  great  Heiress  ; 
And  as  sure  as  London  was  built  of  bricks, 
My  Lord  would  ask  her  the  day  to  fix, 
To  ride  in  her  fine  gilt  coach  and  six, 

Like  her  Worship  the  Lady  May'ress. 

Instead  of  stories  from  Edgeworth's  page, 
The  true  golden  lore  for  our  golden  age, 

Or  lessons  from  Barbauld  and  Trimmer, 
Teaching  the  worth  of  Virtue  and  Health, 
All  that  she  knew  was  the  Virtue  of  Wealth, 
Provided  by  vulgar  nursery  stealth, 

With  a  Book  of  Leaf  Gold  for  a  Primer. 

The  very  metal  of  merit  they  told, 

And  praised  her  for  being  as  "  good  as  gold !" 

Till  she  grew  as  a  peacock  haughty  : 
Of  money  they  talk'd  the  whole  day  round, 
And  weigh'd  desert  like  grapes  by  the  pound, 
Till  she  had  an  idea  from  the  very  sound 

That  people  with  naught  were  naughty. 

They  praised — poor  children  with  nothing  at  all ! 
Lord  !  how  you  twaddle  and  waddle  and  squall 

Like  common-bred  geese  and  ganders  ! 
What  sad  little  bad  little  figures  you  make 
To  the  rich  Miss  K.,  whose  plainest  seed-cake 

Was  stuff' d  with  corianders  ! 

They  praised  her  falls,  as  well  as  her  walk, 
Flatterers  make  cream  cheese  of  chalk, 


124 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


They  praised — how  they  praised — her  very  small  talk, 

As  if  it  fell  from  a  Solon  ; 
Or  the  girl  who  at  each  pretty  phrase  let  drop 
A.  ruby  comma,  or  pearl  full-stop, 

Or  an  emerald  semi-colon. 

They  praised  her  spirit,  and  now  and  then, 
The  Nurse  brought  her  own  little  "  nevy  "  Ben, 

To  play  with  the  future  May'ress, 
And  when  he  got  raps,  and  taps,  and  slaps, 
Scratches,  and  pinches,  snips,  and  snaps, 

As  if  from  a  Tigress  or  Bearesa, 
They  told  him  how  Lords  would  court  that  hand, 
And  always  gave  him  to  understand, 
While  he  rubb'd,  poor  soul, 
His  carroty  poll, 

That  his  hair  had  been  pull'd  by  "  a  Hairess." 

Such  were  the  lessons  from  maid  and  nurse, 
A  Governess  help'd  to  make  still  worse, 
Giving  an  appetite  so  perverse 

Fresh  diet  whereon  to  batten — 
Beginning  with  A.  B.  C.  to  hold 
Like  a  royal  playbill  printed  in  gold 

On  a  square  of  pearl-white  satin. 

The  books  to  teach  the  verbs  and  nouns, 
And  those  about  countries,  cities,  and  towns, 
[nstead  of  their  sober  drabs  and  browns, 

Were  in  crimson  silk,  with  gilt  edges : — 
Her  Butler,  and  Enfield,  and  Entick — in  short 
Her  "  Early  Lessons  "  of  every  sort, 

Look'd  like  Souvenirs,  Keepsakes,  and  P hedges. 

Old  Johnson  shone  out  in  as  fine  array 
As  he  did  one  night  when  he  went  to  the  play ; 
Chambaud  like  a  beau  of  King  Charles's  day — 
Lindley  Murray  in  like  conditions — 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AKD  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


Each  weary,  unwelcome,  irksome  task, 
Appear'd  in  a  fancy  dress  and  a  mask — 
If  you  wish  for  similar  copies  ask 
For  Howell  and  James's  Editions. 

Novels  she  read  to  amuse  her  mind, 

But  always  the  affluent  match-making  kind 

That  ends  with  Promessi  Sposi, 
And  a  father-in-law  so  wealthy  and  grand, 
He  could  give  cheque-mate  to  Coutts  in  the  Strand 

So,  along  with  a  ring  and  posy, 
He  endows  the  Bride  with  Golconda  off-hand, 

And  gives  the  Groom  Potosi. 

Plays  she  perused — but  she  liked  the  best 
Those  comedy  gentlefolks  always  possess'd 

Of  fortunes  so  truly  romantic — 
Of  money  so  ready  that  right  or  wrong 
It  always  is  ready  to  go  for  a  song, 
Throwing  it,  going  it,  pitching  it  strong — 
They  ought  to  have  purses  as  green  and  long 

As  the  cucumber  called  the  Gigantic. 

Then  Eastern  Tales  she  loved  for  the  sake 
Of  the  Purse  of  Oriental  make, 

And  the  thousand  pieces  they  put  in  it — 
But  Pastoral  scenes  on  her  heart  fell  cold, 
For  Nature  with  her  had  lost  its  hold, 
No  field  but  the  field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold 

Would  ever  have  caught  her  foot  in  it. 

What  more  ?  She  learnt  to  sing,  and  dance, 
To  sit  on  a  horse,  although  he  should  prance, 
And  to  speak  a  French  not  spoken  in  France 

Any  more  than  at  Babel's  building — 
And  she  painted  shells,  and  flowers,  and  Turks, 
But  her  great  delight  was  in  Fancy  Works 

That  are  done  with  gold  or  gilding. 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Gold  !  still  gold  ! — the  bright  and  the  dead, 

With  golden  beads,  and  gold  lace,  and  gold  thread. 

She  work'd  in  gold,  as  if  for  her  bread  ; 

The  metal  had  so  undermined  her, 
Gold  ran  in  her  thoughts  and  fill'd  her  brain, 
She  was  golden-headed  as  Peter's  cane 

With  which  he  walk'd  behind  her. 

HER  ACCIDENT. 

The  horse  that  carried  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
And  a  better  never  lifted  leg, 

Was  a  very  rich  bay,  called  Banker — 
A  horse  of  a  breed  and  a  mettle  so  rare, — 
By  Bullion  out  of  an  Ingot  mare, — 
That  for  action,  the  best  of  figures,  and  air, 

It  made  many  good  judges  hanker. 

And  when  she  took  a  ride  in  the  Park, 
Equestrian  Lord,  or  pedestrian  Clerk, 

Was  thrown  in  an  amorous  fever, 
To  see  the  Heiress  how  well  she  sat, 
With  her  groom  behind  her,  Bob  or  Nat, 
In  green,  half  smother'd  with  gold,  and  a  hat 

With  more  gold  lace  than  beaver. 

And  then  when  Banker  obtain'd  a  pat, 
To  see  how  he  arched  his  neck  at  that ! 

He  snorted  with  pride  and  pleasure  ! 
Like  the  Steed  in  the  fable  so  lofty  and  grand, 
Who  gave  the  poor  Ass  to  understand, 
That  he  didn't  carry  a  bag  of  sand, 

But  a  burden  of  golden  treasure. 

A  load  of  treasure  ? — alas  !  alas ! 

Had  her  horse  been  fed  upon  English  grass, 

And  sheltered  in  Yorkshire  spinneys, 
Had  he  scour'd  the  sand  with  the  Desert  Ass, 

Or  where  the  American  whinnies — 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


127 


But  a  hunter  from  Erin's  turf  and  gorse, 
A  regular  thorough-bred  Irish  horse, 
Why,  he  ran  away,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
With  a  girl  worth  her  weight  in  guineas ! 

Mayhap  'tis  the  trick  of  such  pamper'd  nags 
To  shy  at  the  sight  of  a  beggar  in  rags, 

But  away,  like  the  bolt  of  a  rabbit, 
Away  went  the  horse  in  the  madness  of  fright, 
And  away  went  the  horsewoman  mocking  the  sight — 
Was  yonder  blue  flash  a  flash  of  blue  light, 

Or  only  the  skirt  of  her  habit  1 

Away  she  flies,  with  the  groom  behind, — 
It  looks  like  a  race  of  the  Calmuck  kind, 

When  Hymen  himself  is  the  starter : 
And  the  Maid  rides  first  in  the  fourfooted  strife, 
Riding,  striding,  as  if  for  her  life, 
While  the  lover  rides  after  to  catch  him  a  wife, 

Although  it's  catching  a  Tartar. 

But  the  Groom  has  lost  his  glittering  hat ! 
Though  he  does  not  sigh  and  pull  up  for  that — 
Alas  !  his  horse  is  a  tit  for  Tat 

To  sell  to  a  very  low  bidder — 
His  wind  is  ruin'd,  his  shoulder  is  sprung, 
Things,  though  a  horse  be  handsome  and  young, 

A  purchaser  will  consider. 

But  still  flies  the  Heiress  through  stones  and  dust. 
Oh,  for  a  fall,  if  fall  she  must, 

On  the  gentle  lap  of  Flora  ! 
But  still,  thank  Heaven  !  she  clings  to  her  seat — 
Away  !  away  !  she  could  ride  a  dead  heat 
With  the  dead  who  ride  so  fast  and  fleet, 

In  the  Ballad  of  Leonora  ! 

Away  she  gallops  ! — it's  awful  work ! 
It's  faster  than  Turpin's  ride  to  York 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


On  Bess  that  notable  clipper  ! 
She  has  circled  the  Ring  ! — she  crosses  the  Park  ! 
Mazeppa,  although  he  was  stripp'd  so  stark, 

Mazeppa  couldn't  outstrip  her ! 

The  fields  seem  running  away  with  the  folks  I 
The  Elms  are  having  a  race  for  the  Oaks ! 

At  a  pace  that  all  Jockeys  disparages ! 
All,  all  is  racing  !  the  Serpentine 
Seems' rushing  past  like  the  "  arrowy  Rhine,"" 
The  houses  have  got  on  a  railway  line, 

And  are  off  like  the  first-class  carriages ! 

She'll  lose  her  life  !  she  is  losing  her  breath  £ 
A  cruel  chase,  she  is  chasing  Death, 

As  female  shriekings  forewarn  her : 
And  now — as  gratis  as  blood  of  Guelph — 
She  clears  that  gate,  which  has  clear 'd  itself 

Since  then,  at  Hyde  Park  Corner  ! 

Alas  !  for  the  hope  of  the  Kilmanseggs  ! 
For  her  head,  her  brains,  her  body,  and  legs, 

Her  life's  not  worth  a  copper ! 
Willy-nilly, 
In  Piccadilly, 
A  hundred  hearts  turn  sick  and  chilly, 

A  hundred  voices  cry,  "  Stop  her  !" 
And  one  old  gentleman  stares  and  stands, 
Shakes  his  head  and  lifts  his  hands, 

And  says,  "  How  very  improper  !" 

On  and  on ! — what  a  perilous  run  ! 
The  iron  rails  seem  all  mingling  in  one, 

To  shut  out  the  Green  Park  scenery  I 
And  now  the  Cellar  its  dangers  reveals, 
She  shudders — she  shrieks — she's  doom'd,  she  feels, 
To  be  torn  by  powers  of  horses  and  wheels, 

Like  a  spinner  by  steam  machinery  ! 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


129 


Sick  with  horror  she  shuts  her  eyes, 
But  the  very  stones  seem  uttering  cries, 

As  they  did  to  that  Persian  daughter, 
When  she  climb'd  up  the  steep  vociferous  hill, 
Her  little  silver  flagon  to  fill 

With  the  magical  Golden  Water ! 

"  Batter  her  !  shatter  her  ! 

Throw  and  scatter  her'" 

Shouts  each  stony-hearted  clatterer — 

"  Dash  at  the  heavy  Dover  ! 
Spill  her  !  kill  her !  tear  and  tatter  her ! 
Smash  her  !  crash  her  !"  (the  stones  didn't  flatter  her !) 
"  Kick  her  brains  out !  let  her  blood  spatter  her ! 

Roll  on  her  over  and  over !" 

For  so  she  gather'd  the  awful  sense 

Of  the  street  in  its  past  unmacadamized  tense, 

As  the  wild  horse  overran  it, — 
His  four  heels  making  the  clatter  of  six, 
Like  a  Devil's  tattoo,  played  with  iron  sticks 

On  a  kettle-drum  of  granite  ! 

On  !  still  on  !  she's  dazzled  with  hints 
Of  oranges,  ribbons,  and  color'd  prints, 
A  Kaleidoscope  jumble  of  shapes  and  tints, 

And  human  faces  all  flashing, 
Bright  and  brief  as  the  sparks  from  the  flints, 

That  the  desperate  hoofs  keep  dashing ! 

On  and  on  !  still  frightfully  fast ! 

Dover-street,  Bond-street,  all  are  past ! 

But — yes — no — yes  ! — they're  down  at  last ! 

The  Furies  and  Fates  have  found  them  ! 
Down  they  go  with  a  sparkle  and  crash, 
Like  a  Bark  that's  struck  by  the  lightning  flash— 
There's  a  shriek — and  a  sob — 
And  the  dense  dark  mob 
Like  a  billow  close  around  them  I 
10 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


*  *  *  *  * 

*  *  *  * 

"  She  breathes !" 
"She  don't!" 
"  She'll  recover !" 
"  She  won't !" 
"  She's  stirring  !  she's  living,  by  Nemesis  V 
Gold,  still  gold  !  on  counter  and  shelf ! 
Golden  dishes  as  plenty  as  delf ! 
Miss  Kilmansegg's  coming  again  to  herself 
On  an  opulent  Goldsmith's  premises ! 

Gold  !  fine  gold  ! — both  yellow  and  red, 
Beaten,  and  molten — polish'd,  and  dead — 
To  see  the  gold  with  profusion  spread 

In  all  forms  of  its  manufacture  ! 
But  what  avails  gold  to  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
When  the  femoral  bone  of  her  dexter  leg 

Has  met  with  a  compound  fracture  ? 

Gold  may  soothe  Adversity's  smart ; 
Nay,  help  to  bind  up  a  broken  heart ; 
But  to  try  it  on  any  other  part 

Were  as  certain  a  disappointment, 
As  if  one  should  rub  the  dish  and  plate, 
Taken  out  of  a  Staffordshire  crate — 
In  the  hope  of  a  Golden  Service  of  State — 

With  Singleton's  "  Golden  Ointment." 

HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 

k<  As  the  twig  is  bent,  the  tree  's  inclined," 
Is  an  adage  often  recall'd  to  mind, 

Referring  to  juvenile  bias: 
And  never  so  well  is  the  verity  seen, 
As  when  to  the  weak,  warp'd  side  we  lean, 

While  Life's  tempests  and  hurricanes  try  us 

Even  thus  with  Miss  K.  and  her  broken  limb, 
By  a  very,  very  remarkable  whim, 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG  131 

She  show'd  her  early  tuition  : 
While  the  buds  of  character  came  into  blow 
With  a  certain  tinge  that  served  to  show 
The  nursery  culture  long  ago, 

As  the  graft  is  known  by  fruition ! 

For  the  King's  Physician,  who  nursed  the  case, 
His  verdict  gave  with  an  awful  face, 

And  three  others  concurr'd  to  egg  it ; 
That  the  Patient  to  give  old  Death  the  slip, 
Like  the  Pope,  instead  of  a  personal  trip, 

Must  send  her  Leg  as  a  Legate. 

The  limb  was  doom'd — it  couldn't  be  saved ! 
And  like  other  people  the  patient  behaved, 
Nay,  bravely  that  cruel  parting  braved, 

Which  makes  some  persons  so  falter, 
They  rather  would  part,  without  a  groan, 
With  the  flesh  of  their  flesh,  and  bone  of  their  bone, 

They  obtain'd  at  St.  George's  altar. 

But  when  it  came  to  fitting  the  stump 
With  a  proxy  limb — then  flatly  and  plump 

She  spoke,  in  the  spirit  olden  ; 
She  couldn't — she  shouldn't — she  wouldn't  have  wood ! 
Nor  a  leg  of  cork,  if  she  never  stood, 
And  she  swore  an  oath,  or  something  as  good, 

The  proxy  limb  should  be  golden  ! 

A  wooden  leg  !  what,  a  sort  of  a  peg, 
For  your  common  Jockeys  and  Jennies ! 

No,  no,  her  mother  might  worry  and  plague — 

Weep,  go  down  on  her  knees,  and  beg, 

But  nothing  would  move  Miss  Kilmansegg ! 

She  could — she  would  have  a  Golden  Leg, 
If  it  cost  ten  thousand  guineas  ! 

Wood  indeed,  in  Forest  or  Park, 

With  its  sylvan  honors  and  feudal  bark, 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Is  an  aristocratical  article  : 
But  split  and  sawn,  and  hack'd  about  town, 
Serving  all  needs  of  pauper  or  clown, 
Trod  on  !  stagger'd  on  !  Wood  cut  down 

Is  vulgar — fibre  and  particle  ! 

And  Cork  ! — when  the  noble  Cork  Tree  shades 
A  lovely  group  of  Castilian  maids, 

'Tis  a  thing  for  a  song  or  sonnet ! — 
But,  cork,  as  it  stops  the  bottle  of  gin, 
Or  bungs  the  beer — the  small  beer — in, 
It  pierced  her  heart  like  a  corking  pin, 

To  think  of  standing  upon  it ! 

A  Leg  of  Gold — solid  gold  throughout, 
Nothing  else,  whether  slim  or  stout, 

Should  ever  support  her,  God  willing  I 
She  must — she  could — she  would  have  her  whii 
Her  father,  she  turn'd  a  deaf  ear  to  him — 

He  might  kill  her — she  didn't  mind  killing  I 
He  was  welcome  to  cut  off  her  other  limb — 

He  might  cut  her  off  with  a  shilling ! 

All  other  promised  gifts  were  in  vain, 

Golden  Girdle,  or  Golden  Chain, 

She  writhed  with  impatience  more  than  pain, 

And  utter'd  "  pshaws  !"  and  "  pishes!'7 
But  a  Leg  of  Gold  !  as  she  lay  in  bed, 
It  danced  before  her — it  ran  in  her  head  I 

It  jump'd  with  her  dearest  wishes  ! 

«  Gold — gold — gold  !    Oh,  let  it  be  gold  P 
Asleep  or  awake  that  tale  she  told, 

And  when  she  grew  delirious  : 
Till  her  parents  resolved  to  grant  her  wish, 
If  they  melted  down  plate,  and  goblet,  and  dish, 

The  case  was  getting  so  serious. 

So  a  Leg  was  made  in  a  comely  mould, 
Of  Gold,  fine  virgin  glittering  gold, 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


As  solid  as  man  could  make  it — 
Solid  in  foot,  and  calf,  and  shank, 
A  prodigious  sum  of  money  it  sank  ; 
In  fact  'twas  a  Branch  of  the  family  Bank, 

And  no  easy  matter  to  break  it. 

All  sterling  metal — not  half-and-half, 

The  Goldsmith's  mark  was  stamp'd  on  the  calf— 

'Twas  pure  as  from  Mexican  barter ! 
And  to  make  it  more  costly,  just  over  the  knee, 
Where  another  ligature  used  to  be, 
Was  a  circle  of  jewels,  worth  shillings  to  see, 

A  new-fangled  Badge  of  the  Garter ! 

'Twas  a  splendid,  brilliant,  beautiful  Leg, 

Fit  for  the  Court  of  Scander-Beg, 

That  Precious  Leg  of  Miss  Kilmansegg  ! 

For,  thanks  to  parental  bounty, 
Secure  from  Mortification's  touch, 
She  stood  on  a  member  that  cost  as  much 

As  a  Member  for  all  the  County ! 

HER  FAME. 

To  gratify  stern  ambition's  whims, 

What  hundreds  and  thousands  of  precious  limbs 

On  a  field  of  battle  we  scatter ! 
Sever'd  by  sword,  or  bullet,  or  saw, 
Off  they  go,  all  bleeding  and  raw, 
But  the  public  seems  to  get  the  lock-jaw, 

So  little  is  said  on  the  matter  ! 

Legs,  the  tightest  that  ever  were  seen, 

The  tightest,  the  lightest,  that  danced  on  the  green, 

Cutting  capers  to  sweet  Kitty  Clover ; 
Shatter'd,  scatter'd,  cut,  and  bowl'd  down, 
Off  they  go,  worse  off  for  renown, 
A  line  in  the  Times,  or  a  talk  about  town, 

Than  the  leg  that  a  fly  runs  over ! 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


But  the  Precious  Leg  of  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
That  gowden,  goolden,  golden  leg, 

Was  the  theme  of  all  conversation ! 
Had  it  been  a  Pillar  of  Church  and  State, 
Or  a  prop  to  support  the  whole  Dead  Weight, 
It  could  not  have  furnish'd  more  debate 

To  the  heads  and  tails  of  the  nation  ! 

East  and  west,  and  north  and  south, 

Though  useless  for  either  hunger  or  drouth, — 

The  Leg  was  in  everybody's  mouth, 

To  use  a  poetical  figure, 
Rumor,  in  taking  her  ravenous  swim, 
Saw,  and  seized  on  the  tempting  limb, 

Like  a  shark  on  the  leg  of  a  nigger. 

Wilful  murder  fell  very  dead ; 

Debates  in  the  House  were  hardly  read  ; 

In  vain  the  Police  Reports  were  fed 

With  Irish  riots  and  rumpuses — 
The  Leg  !  the  Leg  !  was  the  great  event, 
Through  every  circle  in  life  it  went, 

Like  the  leg  of  a  pair  of  compasses. 

The  last  new  Novel  seem'd  tame  and  flat, 
The  Leg,  a  novelty  newer  than  that, 

Had  tripp'd  up  the  heels  of  Fiction ! 
It  Burked  the  very  essays  of  Burke, 
And,  alas  !  how  Wealth  over  Wit  plays  the  Turk  ! 
As  a  regular  piece  of  goldsmith's  work, 

Got  the  better  of  Goldsmith's  diction. 

"  A  leg  of  gold  !  what  of  solid  gold  V 
Cried  rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old, — 

And  Master  and  Miss  and  Madam — 
'Twas  the  talk  of  'Change — the  Alley — the  Bank— 
And  with  men  of  scientific  rank 
It  made  as  much  stir  as  the  fossil  shank 

Of  a  Lizard  coeval  with  Adam  ! 


m:  ;.s  kilmansegg  and  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG.  135 


Of  course  with  Greenwich  and  Chelsea  elves, 
Men  who  had  lost  a  limb  themselves, 

Its  interest  did  not  dwindle — 
But  Bill,  and  Ben,  and  Jack,  and  Tom, 
Could  hardly  have  spun  more  yarns  therefrom, 

If  the  leg  had  been  a  spindle. 

Meanwhile  the  story  went  to  and  fro, 
Till,  gathering  like  the  ball  of  snow, 
By  the  time  it  got  to  Stratford-le-Bow, 

Through  Exaggeration's  touches, 
The  Heiress  and  Hope  of  the  Kilmanseggs 
Was  propp'd  on  two  fine  Golden  Legs, 

And  a  pair  of  Golden  Crutches  ! 

Never  had  Leg  so  great  a  run ! 

'Twas  the  "  go  "  and  the  "  Kick  "  thrown  into  one ! 

The  mode — the  new  thing  under  the  sun, 

The  rage — the  fancy — the  passion  ! 
Bonnets  were  named,  and  hats  were  worn, 
A  la  Golden  Leg  instead  of  Leghorn, 
And  stockings  and  shoes 
Of  golden  hues, 
Took  the  lead  in  the  walks  of  fashion  ! 

The  Golden  Leg  had  a  vast  career, 

It  was  sung  and  danced — and  to  show  how  near 

Low  Folly  to  lofty  approaches, 
Down  to  society's  very  dregs, 
The  Belles  of  Wapping  wore  "  Kilmanseggs," 
And  St.  Giles's  Beaux  sported  Golden  Legs 

In  their  pinchbeck  pins  and  brooches ! 

HER   FIRST  STEP 

Supposing  the  Trunk  and  Limbs  of  Man 
Shared  on  the  allegorical  plan, 

By  the  Passions  that  mark  humanity, 
Whichever  might  claim  the  head,  or  heart. 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


The  stomach,  or  any  other  part, 

The  Legs  would  be  seized  by  vanity. 

There's  Bardus,  a  six-foot  column  of  fop, 
A  lighthouse  without  any  light  atop, 

Whose  height  would  attract  beholders, 
If  he  had  not  lost  some  inches  clear 
By  looking  down  at  his  kerseymere, 
Ogling  the  limbs  he  holds  so  dear, 

Till  he  got  a  stoop  in  his  shoulders. 

Talk  of  Art,  of  Science,  or  Books, 
And  down  go  the  everlasting  looks, 

To  his  cruel  beauties  so  wedded ! 
Try  him,  wherever  you  will,  you  find 
His  mind  in  his  legs,  and  his  legs  in  his  mind, 
All  prongs  and  folly — in  short  a  kind 

Of  Fork — that  is  Fiddle-headed. 

What  wonder,  then,  if  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
With  a  splendid,  brilliant,  beautiful  leg, 
Fit  for  the  court  of  Scander  Beg, 
Disdain'd  to  hide  it  like  Joan  or  Meg, 

In  petticoats  stuff'd  or  quilted  ? 
Not  she  !  'twas  her  convalescent  whim 
To  dazzle  the  world  with  her  precious  limb, — 

Nay,  to  go  a  little  high-kilted. 

So  cards  were  sent  for  that  sort  of  mob 
Where  Tartars  and  Africans  hob-and-nob, 
And  the  Cherokee  talks  of  his  cab  and  cob 

To  Polish  or  Lapland  lovers — 
Cards  like  that  hieroglyphical  call 
To  a  geographical  Fancy  Ball 

On  the  recent  Post-Office  covers. 

For  if  Lion-hunters — and  great  ones  too — 

Would  mob  a  savage  from  Latakoo, 

Or  squeeze  for  a  glimpse  of  Prince  Le  Boo, 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG.  131 


That  unfortunate  Sandwich  scion — 
Hundreds  of  first-rate  people,  no  doubt, 
Would  gladly,  madly,  rush  to  a  rout, 

That  promised  a  Golden  Lion  ! 

HER  FANCY  BALL. 

Of  all  the  spirits  of  evil  fame, 
That  hurt  the  soul,  or  injure  the  frame, 
And  poison  what's  honest  and  hearty, 
There's  none  more  needs  a  Mathew  to  preach 
A  cooling,  antiphlogistic  speech, 

To  praise  and  enforce 

A  temperate  course, 
Than  the  Evil  Spirit  of  Party. 

Go  to  the  House  of  Commons,  or  Lords, 
And  they  seem  to  be  busy  with  simple  words 

In  their  popular  sense  or  pedantic — 
But,  alas  !  with  their  cheers,  and  sneers,  and  jeers, 
They're  really  busy,  whatever  appears, 
Putting  peas  in  each  other's  ears, 

To  drive  their  enemies  frantic  ! 

Thus  Tories  love  to  worry  the  Whigs, 

Who  treat  them  in  turn  like  Schwalbach  pigs, 

Giving  them  lashes,  thrashes,  and  digs, 

With  their  writhing  and  pain  delighted — - 
But  after  all  that's  said,  and  more, 
The  malice  and  spite  of  Party  are  poor 
To  the  malice  and  spite  of  a  party  next  door, 

To  a  party  not  invited. 

On  with  the  cap  and  out  with  the  light, 
Weariness  bids  the  world  good-night, 

At  least  for  the  usual  season ; 
But  hark  !  a  clatter  of  horses'  heels  ; 
And  Sleep  and  Silence  are  broken  on  wheels, 

Like  Wilful  Murder  and  Treason  ! 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Another  crash — and  the  carriage  goes — 
Again  poor  Weariness  seeks  the  repose 

That  Nature  demands  imperious  ; 
But  Echo  takes  up  the  burden  now, 
With  a  rattling  chorus  of  row-de-dow-dow, 
Till  Silence  herself  seems  making  a  row, 

Like  a  Quaker  gone  delirious ! 

'Tis  night — a  winter  night — and  the  stars 
Are  shining  like  winkin' — Venus  and  Mars 
Are  rolling  along  in  their  golden  cars 

Through  the  sky's  serene  expansion — 
But  vainly  the  stars  dispense  their  rays, 
Venus  and  Mars  are  lost  in  the  blaze 

Of  the  Kilmanseggs'  luminous  mansion  ! 

Up  jumps  Fear  in  a  terrible  fright ! 
His  bedchamber  windows  look  so  bright, 

With  light  all  the  Square  is  glutted  ! 
Up  he  jumps,  like  a  sole  from  the  pan, 
And  a  tremor  sickens  his  inward  man, 
For  he  feels  as  only  a  gentleman  can, 

Who  thinks  he's  being  "  gutted." 

Again  Fear  settles,  all  snug  and  warm  ; 
But  only  to  dream  of  a  dreadful  storm 
From  Autumn's  sulphurous  locker ; 

But  the  only  electric  body  that  falls, 
Wears  a  negative  coat,  and  positive  smalls, 
And  draws  the  peal  that  so  appals 

From  the  Kilmanseggs'  brazen  knocker ! 

'Tis  Curiosity's  Benefit  night — 

And  perchance  'tis  the  English  Second-Sight, 

But  whatever  it  be,  so  be  it — 
As  the  friends  and  guests  of  Miss  Kilmansegg 
Crowd  in  to  look  at  her  Golden  Leg, 
As  many  more 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


Mob  round  the  door 
To  see  them  going  to  see  it ! 

In  they  go — in  jackets,  and  cloaks, 
Plumes,  and  bonnets,  turbans,  and  toques, 

As  if  to  a  Congress  of  Nations : 
Greeks  and  Malays,  with  daggers  and  dirks 
Spaniards,  Jews,  Chinese,  and  Turks — 
Some  like  original  foreign  works, 

But  mostly  like  bad  translations. 

In  they  go,  and  to  work  like  a  pack, 
Juan,  Moses,  and  Shacabac, 

Tom,  and  Jerry,  and  Spring  heel'd  Jack, 
For  some  of  low  Fancy  are  lovers — 
Skirting,  zigzagging,  casting  about, 
Here  and  there,  and  in  and  out, 
With  a  crush,  and  a  rush,  for  a  full-bodied  rout 

Is  one  of  the  stifFest  of  covers. 

In  they  went,  and  hunted  about, 
Open-mouth'd,  like  chub  and  trout, 
And  some  with  the  upper  lip  thrust  out, 

Like  that  fish  for  routing,  a  barbel — 
While  Sir  Jacob  stood  to  welcome  the  crowd, 
And  rubb'd  his  hands,  and  smiled  aloud, 
And  bow'd,  and  bow'd,  and  bow'd,  and  bow'd, 

Like  a  man  who  is  sawing  marble. 

For  Princes  were  there,  and  Noble  Peers ; 
Dukes  descending  from  Norman  spears; 
Earls  that  dated  from  early  years  ; 

And  Lords  in  vast  variety — 
Besides  the  Gentry,  both  new  and  old — 
For  people  who  stand  on  legs  of  gold, 

Are  sure  to  stand  well  with  society. 

"  But  where — where — where  ?"  with  one  accord 
Cried  Moses  and  Mufti,  Jack  and  my  Lord, 


140 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Wang-Fong  and  II  Bondocani — 
When  slow,  and  heavy,  and  dead  as  a  dump, 
They  heard  a  foot  begin  to  stump, 
Thump  !  lump  ! 
Lump  !  thump ! 
Like  the  Spectre  in  "  Don  Giovanni !" 

And  lo  !  the  Heiress,  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
With  her  splendid,  brilliant,  beautiful  leg, 

In  the  garb  of  a  Goddess  olden — 
Like  chaste  Diana  going  to  hunt, 
With  a  golden  spear — which  of  course  was  blun 
And  a  tunic  loop'd  up  to  a  gem  in  front, 

To  show  the  Leg  that  was  Golden  ! 

Gold  !  still  gold  !  her  Crescent  behold, 
That  should  be  silver,  but  would  be  gold  ; 

And  her  robe's  auriferous  spangles  ! 
Her  golden  stomacher — how  she  would  melt ! 
Her  golden  quiver,  and  golden  belt, 

Where  a  golden  bugle  dangles ! 

And  her  jewell'd  Garter?  Oh,  Sin!  Oh,  Shame! 
Let  Pride  and  Vanity  bear  the  blame, 
That  bring  such  blots  on  female  fame ! 

But  to  be  a  true  recorder, 
Besides  its  thin  transparent  stuff, 
The  tunic  was  loop'd  quite  high  enough 

To  give  a  glimpse  of  the  Order  ! 

But  what  have  sin  or  shame  to  do 

With  a  Golden  Leg — and  a  stout  one  too  ? 

Away  with  all  Prudery's  panics  ! 
That  the  precious  metal,  by  thick  and  thin. 
Will  cover  square  acres  of  land  or  sin, 
Is  a  fact  made  plain 
Again  and  again, 
In  morals  as  well  as  Mechanics. 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG.  141 


A  few,  indeed,  of  her  proper  sex, 

Who  seem'd  to  feel  her  foot  on  their  necks, 

And  fear'd  their  charms  would  meet  with  checks 

From  so  rare  and  splendid  a  blazon — 
A  few  cried  "  fie  !"— and  "  forward  "—and  "  bold  \" 
And  said  of  the  Leg  it  might  be  gold, 

But  to  them  it  looked  like  brazen ! 

'Twas  hard  they  hinted  for  flesh  and  blood, 
Virtue,  and  Beauty,  and  all  that's  good, 

To  strike  to  mere  dross  their  topgallants — 
But  what  were  Beauty,  or  Virtue,  or  Worth, 
Gentle  manners,  or  gentle  birth, 
Nay,  what  the  most  talented  head  on  earth 

To  a  Leg  worth  fifty  Talents  ! 

But  the  men  sang  quite  another  hymn 

Of  glory  and  praise  to  the  precious  Limb — 

Age,  sordid  Age,  admired  the  whim, 

And  its  indecorum  pardon'd —  - 
While  half  of  the  young — ay,  more  than  half — 
Bow'd  down  and  worshipp'd  the  Golden  Calf, 

Like  the  Jews  when  their  hearts  were  harden'd. 

A  Golden  Leg  !  what  fancies  it  fired  ! 
What  golden  wishes  and  hopes  inspired  ! 

To  give  but  a  mere  abridgment — 
What  a  leg  to  leg-bail  Embarrassment's  serf! 
What  a  leg  for  a  Leg  to  take  on  the  turf! 

What  a  leg  for  a  marching  regiment ! 

A  Golden  Leg  ! — whatever  Love  sings, 
'Twas  worth  a  bushel  of  "  Plain  Gold  Rings  99 

With  which  the  Romantic  wheedles. 
'Twas  worth  all  the  legs  in  stockings  and  socks — 
'Twas  a  leg  that  might  be  put  in  the  Stocks, 

N.B. — Not  the  parish  beadle's ! 

And  Lady  K.  nid-nodded  her  head, 
Lapp'd  in  a  turban  fancy-bred, 


142 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Just  like  a  love-apple,  huge  and  red, 
Some  Mussul- womanish  mystery  ; 
But  whatever  she  meant 
To  represent, 
She  talk'd  like  the  Muse  of  History. 

She  told  how  the  filial  leg  was  lost ; 
And  then  how  much  the  gold  one  cost ; 

With  its  weight  to  a  Trojan  fraction  : 
And  how  it  took  off,  and  how  it  put  on  ; 
And  call'd  on  Devil,  Duke,  and  Don, 
Mahomet,  Moses,  and  Prester  John, 

To  notice  its  beautiful  action. 

And  then  of  the  Leg  she  went  in  quest ; 
And  led  it  where  the  light  was  best ; 
And  made  it  lay  itself  up  to  rest 

In  postures  for  painters'  studies  : 
It  cost  more  tricks  and  trouble  by  half, 
Than  it  takes  to  exhibit  a  Six-Legg'd  Calf 

To  a  boothful  of  country  Cuddies. 

Nor  yet  did  the  Heiress  herself  omit 
The  arts  that  help  to  make  a  hit, 

And  preserve  a  prominent  station. 
She  talk'd  and  laugh'd  far  more  than  her  share  j 
And  took  a  part  in  "  Rich  and  Rare 
Were  the  g3ms  she  wore  " — and  the  gems  were  there, 

Like  a  Song  with  an  Illustration. 

She  even  stood  up  with  a  Count  of  France 
To  dance — alas  !  the  measures  we  dance 

When  Vanity  plays  the  Piper  ! 
Vanity,  Vanity,  apt  to  betray, 
And  lead  all  sorts  of  legs  astray, 
Wood,  or  metal,  or  human  clay, — 

Since  Satan  first  play'd  the  Viper  ! 

But  first  she  dofT'd  her  hunting  gear, 

And  favor'd  Tom  Tug  with  her  golden  spear, 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


To  row  with  down  the  river — 
A  Bonze  had  her  golden  bow  to  hold, 
A  Hermit  her  belt  and  bugle  of  gold  ; 

And  an  Abbot  her  golden  quiver. 

And  then  a  space  was  clear'd  on  the  floor, 
And  she  walk'd  the  Minuet  de  la  Cour, 
With  all  the  pomp  of  a  Pompadour ; 

But  although  she  began  andante^ 
Conceive  the  faces  of  all  the  Rout, 
When  she  finish'd  off  with  a  whirligig  bout, 
And  the  Precious  Leg  stuck  stiffly  out 

Like  the  leg  of  a  Figurante  i 

So  the  courtly  dance  was  goldenly  done, 
And  golden  opinions,  of  course,  it  won 

From  all  different  sorts  of  people — 
Chiming,  ding-dong,  with  flattering  phrase, 
In  one  vociferous  peal  of  praise, 
Like  the  peal  that  rings  on  Royal  days 

From  Loyalty's  parish-steeple. 

And  yet,  had  the  leg  been  one  of  those 
That  dance  for  bread  in  flesh-color'd  hose, 

With  Rosina's  pastoral  bevy, 
The  jeers  it  had  met, — the  shouts  !  the  scoff! 
The  cutting  advice  to  "  take  itself  off," 

For  sounding  but  half  so  heavy. 

Had  it  been  a  leg  like  those,  perchance, 
That  teach  little  girls  and  boys  to  dance, 
To  set,  poussette,  recede,  and  advance, 

With  the  steps  and  figures  most  proper, — 
Had  it  hopp'd  for  a  weekly  or  quarterly  sum, 
How  little  of  praise  or  grist  would  have  come 

To  a  mill  with  such  a  hopper ! 

But  the  Leg  was  none  of  those  limbs  forlorn — 
Bartering  capers  and  hops  for  corn — 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


That  meet  with  public  hisses  and  scorn, 

Or  the  morning  journal  denounces — 
Had  it  pleas'd  to  caper  from  morn  till  dusk, 
There  was  all  the  music  of  "  Money  Musk 99 

In  its  ponderous  bangs  and  bounces. 

But  hark ! — as  slow  as  the  strokes  of  a  pump, 
Lump,  thump  ! 
Thump,  lump  I 
As  the  Giant  of  Castle  Otranto  might  stump 

To  a  lower  room  from  an  upper — 
Down  she  goes  with  a  noisy  dint, 
For  taking  the  crimson  turban's  hint, 
A  noble  Lord  at  the  Head  of  the  Mint 
Is  leading  the  Leg  to  supper  ! 

But  the  supper,  alas  !  must  rest  untold, 
With  its  blaze  of  light  and  its  glitter  of  gold, 

For  to  paint  that  scene  of  glamor, 
It  would  need  the  Great  Enchanter's  charm, 
Who  waves  over  Palace,  and  Cot,  and  Farm, 
An  arm  like  the  Goldbeater's  Golden  Arm 

That  wields  a  Golden  Hammer. 

He — only  HE — could  fitly  state 

THE  MASSIVE  SERVICE  OF  GOLDEN  PLATE, 

With  the  proper  phrase  and  expansion — 
The  Rare  Selection  of  FOREIGN  WINES— 
The  ALPS  OF  ICE  and  MOUNTAINS  OF  PINES, 
The  punch  in  OCEANS  and  sugary  shrines, 
The  TEMPLE  OF  TASTE  from  GUNTER'S  DE- 
SIGNS— 

In  short,  all  that  WEALTH  with  A  FEAST  com- 
bines, 

In  a  SPLENDID  FAMILY  MANSION. 

Suffice  it  each  mask'd  outlandish  guest 
Ate  and  drank  of  the  very  best, 
According  to  critical  conners — 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


And  then  they  pledged  the  Hostess  and  Host, 
But  the  Golden  Leg  was  the  standing  toast, 

And  as  somebody  swore, 

Walk'd  off  with  more 
Than  its  share  of  the  "  Hips !"  and  honors! 

"  Miss  Kilmansegg  ! — 
Full  glasses  I  beg  ! — 
Miss  Kilmansegg  and  her  Precious  Leg  P5 

And  away  went  the  bottle  careering  ! 
Wine  in  bumpers  !  and  shouts  in  peals  ! 
Till  the  Clown  didn't  know  his  head  from  his  heels, 
The  Mussulman's  eyes  danced  two-some  reels, 
And  the  Quaker  was  hoarse  with  cheering  ! 

HER  DREAM. 

Miss  Kilmansegg  took  oft'  her  leg, 
And  laid  it  down  like  a  cribbage-peg, 

For  the  Rout  was  done  and  the  riot : 
The  Square  was  hush'd ;  not  a  sound  was  heard  ; 
The  sky  was  grey,  and  no  creature  stirr'd, 
Except  one  little  precocious  bird, 

That  chirp'd — and  then  was  quiet. 

So  still  without, — so  still  within  ; — 
It  had  been  a  sin 
To  drop  a  pin — 
So  intense  is  silence  after  a  din, 

It  seem'd  like  Death's  rehearsal ! 
To  stir  the  air  no  eddy  came  ; 
And  the  taper  burnt  with  as  still  a  flame, 
As  to  flicker  had  been  a  burning  shame, 
In  a  calm  so  universal. 

The  time  for  sleep  had  come  at  last ; 
And  there  was  the  bed,  so  soft,  so  vast, 
Quite  a  field  of  Bedfordshire  clover  ; 
Softer,  cooler,  and  calmer,  no  doubt, 
11 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


From  the  piece  of  work  just  ravell'd  out, 
For  one  of  the  pleasures  of  having  a  rout 
Is  the  pleasure  of  having  it  over. 

No  sordid  pallet,  or  truckle  mean, 

Of  straw,  and  rug,  and  tatters  unclean  ; 

But  a  splendid,  gilded,  carved  machine, 

That  was  fit  for  a  Royal  Chamber. 
On  the  top  was  a  gorgeous  golden  wreath  ; 
And  the  damask  curtains  hung  beneath, 

Like  clouds  of  crimson  and  amber. 

Curtains,  held  up  by  two  little  plump  things, 
With  golden  bodies  and  golden  wings, — 
Mere  fins  for  such  solidities — 
Two  Cupids,  in  short, 
Of  the  regular  sort, 
But  the  housemaid  call'd  them  "  Cupidities." 

No  patchwork  quilt,  all  seams  and  scars, 
But  velvet,  powder'd  with  golden  stars, 

A  fit  mantle  for  iV7g7ii(-Commanders  ! 
And  the  pillow,  as  white  as  snow  undimm'd, 
And  as  cool  as  the  pool  that  the  breeze  has  skimm'd, 
Was  cased  in  the  finest  cambric,  and  trimm'd 

With  the  costliest  lace  of  Flanders. 

And  the  bed — Of  the  Eider's  softest  down, 
'Twas  a  place  to  revel,  to  smother,  to  drown 

In  a  bliss  inferr'd  by  the  Poet ; 
For  if  ignorance  be  indeed  a  bliss, 
What  blessed  ignorance  equals  this, 

To  sleep — and  not  to  know  it  ? 

Oh,  bed !  oh,  bed  !  delicious  bed  ! 

That  heaven  upon  earth  to  the  weary  head  ; 

But  a  place  that  to  name  would  be  ill-bred, 

To  the  head  with  a  wakeful  trouble — 
'Tis  held  by  such  a  different  lease  ! 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG.  147 


To  one,  a  place  of  comfort  and  peace, 
All  stuff'd  with  the  down  of  stubble  geese, 
To  another  with  only  the  stubble  ! 

To  one,  a  perfect  Halcyon  nest, 

All  calm,  and  balm,  and  quiet,  and  rest, 

And  soft  as  the  fur  of  the  cony — 
To  another,  so  restless  for  body  and  head, 
That  the  bed  seems  borrowed  from  Nettlebed, 

And  the  pillow  from  Stratford  the  Stony  ! 

To  the  happy,  a  first-class  carriage  of  ease, 
To  the  Land  of  Nod,  or  where  you  please  ; 

But,  alas !  for  the  watchers  and  weepers, 
Who  turn,  and  turn,  and  turn  again, 
But  turn,  and  turn,  and  turn  in  vain, 
With  an  anxious  brain, 
And  thoughts  in  a  train 
That  does  not  run  upon  sleepers  ! 

Wide  awake  as  the  mousing  owl, 
Night-hawk,  or  other  nocturnal  fowl. — 

But  more  profitless  vigils  keeping, — 
Wide  awake  in  the  dark  they  stare, 
Filling  with  phantoms  the  vacant  air, 
As  if  that  Crook-Back'd  Tyrant  Care 

Had  plotted  to  kill  them  sleeping. 

And  oh  !  when  the  blessed  diurnal  light 
Is  quench'd  by  the  providential  night, 

To  render  our  slumber  more  certain, 
Pity,  pity  the  wretches  that  weep, 
For  they  must  be  wretched  who  cannot  sleep 

When  God  himself  draws  the  curtain ! 

The  careful  Betty  the  pillow  beats, 

And  airs  the  blankets,  and  smoothes  the  sheets, 

And  gives  the  mattress  a  shaking — 
But  vainly  Betty  performs  her  part, 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


If  a  ruffled  head  and  a  rumpled  heart 
As  well  as  the  couch  want  making. 

There's  Morbid,  all  bite,  and  verjuice,  and  nerves, 
Where  other  people  would  make  preserves, 

He  turns  his  fruits  into  pickles  : 
Jealous,  envious,  and  fretful  by  day, 
At  night,  to  his  own  sharp  fancies  a  prey, 
He  lies  like  a  hedgehog  rolled  up  the  wrong  way, 

Tormenting  himself  with  his  prickles. 

But  a  child — that  bids  the  world  good  night 
In  downright  earnest  and  cuts  it  quite — 

A  Cherub  no  Art  can  copy, — 
'Tis  a  perfect  picture  to  see  him  lie 
As  if  he  had  supp'd  on  dormouse  pie 
(An  ancient  classical  dish  by  the  by) 

With  a  sauce  of  syrup  of  poppy. 

Oh,  bed  !  bed  !  bed !  delicious  bed  ! 

That  heav'n  upon  earth  to  the  weary  head, 

Whether  lofty  or  low  its  condition  ! 
But  instead  of  putting  our  plagues  on  shelves, 
In  our  blankets  how  often  we  toss  ourselves, 
Or  are  tossed  by  such  allegorical  elves 

As  Pride,  Hate,  Greed,  and  Ambition ! 

The  independent  Miss  Kilmansegg 
Took  off  her  independent  Leg 

And  laid  it  beneath  her  pillow, 
And  then  on  the  bed  her  frame  she  cast, 
The  time  for  repose  had  come  at  last, 
But  long,  long,  after  the  storm  is  past 

Rolls  the  turbid,  turbulent  billow. 

No  part  she  had  in  vulgar  cares 
That  belong  to  common  household  affairs — 
Nocturnal  annoyances  such  as  theirs 
Who  lie  with  a  shrewd  surmising 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


149 


That  while  they  are  couchant  (a  bitter  cup !) 
Their  bread  and  butter  are  getting  up, 

And  the  coals — confound  them  ! — are  rising. 

No  fear  she  had  her  sleep  to  postpone, 
Like  the  crippled  Widow  who  weeps  alone, 
And  cannot  make  a  doze  her  own, 

For  the  dread  that  mayhap  on  the  morrow, 
The  true  and  Christian  reading  to  balk, 
A  broker  will  take  up  her  bed  and  walk, 

By  way  of  curing  her  sorrow. 

No  cause  like  these  she  had  to  bewail : 

For  the  breath  of  applause  had  blown  a  gale. 

And  winds  from  that  quarter  seldom  fail 

To  cause  some  human  commotion  ; 
But  whenever  such  breezes  coincide 
With  the  very  spring-tide 
Of  human  pride, 
There's  no  such  swell  on  the  ocean ! 

Peace,  and  ease,  and  slumber  lost, 

She  turn'd,  and  roll'd,  and  tumbled,  and  toss'd, 

With  a  tumult  that  would  not  settle : 
A  common  case,  indeed,  with  such 
As  have  too  little,  or  think  too  mucli, 

Of  the  precious  and  glittering  metal. 

Gold  ! — she  saw  at  her  golden  foot 
The  Peer  whose  tree  had  an  olden  root, 
The  Proud,  the  Great,  the  Learned  to  boot, 

The  handsome,  the  gay,  and  the  witty — 
The  Man  of  Science — of  Arms — of  Art, 
The  man  who  deals  but  at  Pleasure's  mart, 

And  the  man  who  deals  in  the  City. 

Gold,  still  gold — and  true  to  the  mould  ! 
In  the  very  scheme  of  her  dream  it  told  ; 
For,  by  magical  transmutation, 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


From  her  Leg  through  her  body  it  seem'd  to  go, 
Till,  gold  above,  and  gold  below, 
She  was  gold,  all  gold,  from  her  little  gold  toe 
To  her  organ  of  Veneration  ! 

And  still  she  retain'd,  through  Fancy's  art, 
The  Golden  Bow,  and  the  Golden  Dart, 
With  which  she  had  played  a  Goddess's  part 

In  her  recent,  glorification. 
And  still,  like  one  of  the  self-same  brood, 
On  a  Plinth  of  the  self-same  metal  she  stood 

For  the  whole  world's  adoration. 

And  hymns  and  incense  around  her  roll'd, 
From  Golden  Harps  and  Censers  of  Gold, — 
For  Fancy  in  dreams  is  as  uncontrolPd 

As  a  horse  without  a  bridle  : 
What  wonder,  then,  from  all  checks  exempt, 
If,  inspired  by  the  Golden  Leg,  she  dreamt 

She  was  turn'd  to  a  Golden  Idol  ? 

HER  COURTSHIP. 

When  leaving  Eden's  happy  land 
The  grieving  Angel  led  by  the  hand 

Our  banish'd  Father  and  Mother, 
Forgotten  amid  their  awful  doom, 
The  tears,  the  fears,  and  the  future's  gloom, 
On  each  brow  was  a  wreath  of  Paradise  bloom, 

That  our  Parents  had  twined  for  each  other. 

It  was  only  while  sitting  like  figures  of  stone, 
For  the  grieving  Angel  had  skyward  flown, 
As  they  sat,  those  Two,  in  the  world  alone, 

With  disconsolate  hearts  nigh  cloven, 
That  scenting  the  gust  of  happier  hours, 
They  look'd  around  for  the  precious  flow'rs, 
And  lo ! — a  last  relic  of  Eden's  dear  bow'rs— 

The  chaplet  that  Love  had  woven ! 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


And  still,  when  a  pair  of  Lovers  meet, 
There's  a  sweetness  in  air,  unearthly  sweet, 
That  savors  still  of  that  happy  retreat 

Where  Eve  by  Adam  was  courted  : 
Whilst  the  joyous  thrush,  and  the  gentle  Dove, 
Woo'd  their  mates  in  the  boughs  above, 

And  the  Serpent,  as  yet,  only  sported. 

Who  hath  not  felt  that  breath  in  the  air, 

A  perfume  and  freshness  strange  and  rare, 

A  warmth  in  the  light,  and  a  bliss  everywhere. 

When  young  hearts  yearn  together  ? 
All  sweets  below,  and  all  sunny  above, 
Oh  !  there's  nothing  in  life  like  making  love, 

Save  making  hay  in  fine  weather ! 

Who  hath  not  found  amongst  his  flow'rs 
A  blossom  too  bright  for  this  world  of  ours, 

Like  a  rose  among  snows  of  Sweden  ? 
But  to  turn  again  to  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
Where  must  love  have  gone  to  beg, 
If  such  a  thing  as  a  Golden  Leg 

Had  put  its  foot  in  Eden ! 

And  yet — to  tell  the  rigid  truth — 

Her  favor  was  sought  by  Age  and  Youth — 

For  the  prey  will  find  a  prowler ! 
She  was  follow'd,  flatter'd,  courted,  address'd, 
Woo'd,  and  coo'd,  and  wheedled,  and  press'd, 
By  suitors  from  North,  South,  East,  and  West, 

Like  that  Heiress,  in  Song,  Tibbie  Fowler ! 

But,  alas !  alas !  for  the  Woman's  fate, 
Who  has  from  a  mob  to  choose  a  mate  ! 

'T  is  a  strange  and  painful  mystery ! 
But  the  more  the  eggs,  the  worse  the  hatch ; 
The  more  the  fish,  the  worse  the  catch ; 
The  more  the  sparks,  the  worse  the  match ; 

Is  a  fact  in  Woman's  history. 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Give  her  between  a  brace  to  pick, 

And,  mayhap,  with  luck  to  help  the  trick, 

She  will  take  the  Faustus,  and  leave  the  Old  Nick — 

But  her  future  bliss  to  baffle, 
Amongst  a  score  let  her  have  a  voice, 
And  she'll  have  as  little  cause  to  rejoice, 
As  if  she  had  won  the  "  Man  of  her  choice  " 

In  a  matrimonial  raffle  ! 

Thus,  even  thus,  with  the  Heiress  and  Hope, 
Fulfilling  the  adage  of  too  much  rope, 

With  so  ample  a  competition, 
She  chose  the  least  worthy  of  all  the  group, 
Just  as  the  vulture  makes  a  stoop, 
And  singles  out  from  the  herd  or  troop 

The  beast  of  the  worst  condition. 

A  Foreign  Count — who  came  incog., 
Not  under  a  cloud,  but  under  a  fog, 

In  a  Calais  packet's  fore-cabin, 
To  charm  some  lady  British-born, 
With  his  eyes  as  black  as  the  fruit  of  the  thorn, 
And  his  hooky  nose,  and  his  beard  half-shorn, 

Like  a  half-converted  Rabbin. 

And  because  the  Sex  confess  a  charm 

In  the  man  who  has  slash'd  a  head  or  arm, 

Or  has  been  a  throat's  undoing, 
He  was  dress'd  like  one  of  the  glorious  trade, 
At  least  when  Glory  is  off  parade, 
With  a  stock,  and  a  frock,  well  trimm'd  with  braid, 

And  frogs — that  went  a-wooing. 

Moreover,  as  Counts  are  apt  to  do, 

On  the  left-hand  side  of  his  dark  surtout, 

At  one  of  those  holes  that  buttons  go  through 

(To  be  a  precise  recorder), 
A  ribbon  he  wore,  or  rather  a  scrap, 
About  an  inch  of  ribbon  mayhap, 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


That  one  of  his  rivals,  a  whimsical  chap, 
Described  as  his  "  Retail  Order." 

And  then — and  much  it  help'd  his  chance — 
He  could  sing,  and  play  first  fiddle,  and  dance, 
Perform  charades,  and  Proverbs  of  France — 

Act  the  tender,  and  do  the  cruel ; 
For  amongst  his  other  killing  parts, 
He  had  broken  a  brace  of  female  hearts, 

And  murder'd  three  men  in  a  duel  f 

Savage  at  heart,  and  false  of  tongue, 
Subtle  with  age,  and  smooth  to  the  young, 

Like  a  snake  in  his  coiling  and  curling — 
Such  was  the  Count — to  give  him  a  niche — 
Who  came  to  court  that  Heiress  rich, 
And  knelt  at  her  foot — one  needn't  say  which— 

Besieging  her  castle  of  Sterling. 

With  pray'rs  and  vows  he  open'd  his  trench, 
And  plied  her  with  English,  Spanish,  and  French 

In  phrases  the  most  sentimental : 
And  quoted  poems  in  High  and  Low  Dutch, 
With  now  and  then  an  Italian  touch, 
Till  she  yielded,  without  resisting  much, 

To  homage  so  continental. 

And  then  the  sordid  bargain  to  close, 
With  a  miniature  sketch  of  his  hooky  nose, 
And  his  dear  dark  eyes,  as  black  as  sloes, 
And  his  beard  and  whiskers  as  black  as  those, 

The  lady's  consent  he  requited — 
And  instead  of  the  lock  that  lovers  beg, 
The  count  received  from  Miss  Kilmansegg 
A  model,  in  small,  of  her  Precious  Leg — 

And  so  the  couple  were  plighted ! 

But,  oh  !  the  love  that  gold  must  crown ! 
Better — better,  the  love  of  the  clown, 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Who  admires  his  lass  in  her  Sunday  gown, 

As  if  all  the  fairies  had  dress'd  her  ! 
Whose  brain  to  no  crooked  thought  gives  birth, 
Except  that  he  never  will  part  on  earth 
With  his  true  love's  crooked  tester ! 

Alas !  for  the  love  that's  link'd  with  gold  ! 
Better — better,  a  thousand  times  told — 

More  honest,  happy  and  laudable, 
The  downright  loving  of  pretty  Cis, 
Who  wipes  her  lips,  though  there's  nothing  amiss, 
And  takes  a  kiss,  and  gives  a  kiss, 

In  which  her  heart  is  audible  ! 

Pretty  Cis,  so  smiling  and  bright, 

Who  loves  as  she  labors,  with  all  her  might, 

And  without  any  sordid  leaven  ! 
Who  blushes  as  red  as  haws  and  hips, 
Down  to  her  very  finger-tips, 
For  Roger's  blue  ribbons — to  her,  like  strips 

Cut  out  of  the  azure  of  Heaven ! 

HER  MARRIAGE. 

'T  was  morn — a  most  auspicious  one  ! 
From  the  Golden  East,  the  Golden  Sun 
Came  forth  his  glorious  race  to  run, 

Through  clouds  of  most  splendid  tinges ; 
Clouds  that  lately  slept  in  shade, 
But  now  seem'd  made 
Of  gold  brocade, 
With  magnificent  golden  fringes. 

Gold  above,  and  gold  below, 

The  earth  reflected  the  golden  glow, 

From  river,  and  hill,  and  valley : 
Gilt  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
The  Thames — it  look'd  like  the  Golden  Horn, 
And  the  Barge,  that  carried  coal  or  corn, 

Like  Cleopatra's  Galley ! 


MISS  K1LMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG.  155 


Bright  as  clusters  of  Golden-rod, 
Suburban  poplars  began  to  nod, 

With  extempore  splendor  furnish'd  ; 
While  London  was  bright  with  glittering  clocks, 
Golden  dragons,  and  Golden  cocks, 
And  above  them  all, 
The  dome  of  St.  Paul, 
With  its  Golden  Cross  and  its  Golden  Ball. 
Shone  out  as  if  newly  burnish'd  ' 

And  lo  !  for  Golden  Hours  and  Joys, 
Troops  of  glittering  Golden  Boys 
Danced  along  with  a  jocund  noise, 

And  their  gilded  emblems  carried  ! 
In  short,  't  was  the  year's  most  Golden  Day, 
By  mortals  call'd  the  First  of  May, 
When  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
Of  the  Golden  Leg, 
With  a  Golden  Ring  was  married  ! 

And  thousands  of  children,  women,  and  men, 
Counted  the  clock  from  eight  till  ten, 

From  St.  James's  sonorous  steeple  ; 
For  next  to  that  interesting  job, 
The  hanging  of  Jack,  or  Bill,  or  Bob, 
There's  nothing  so  draws  a  London  mob 

As  the  noosing  of  very  rich  people. 

And  a  treat  it  was  for  a  mob  to  behold 
The  Bridal  Carriage  that  blazed  with  gold ! 
And  the  Footmen  tall,  and  the  Coachman  bold, 

In  liveries  so  resplendent — 
Coats  you  wonder'd  to  see  in  place, 
They  seem'd  so  rich  with  golden  lace, 

That  they  might  have  been  independent. 

Coats  that  made  those  menials  proud 
Gaze  with  scorn  on  the  dingy  crowd, 
From  their  gilded  elevations ; 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Not  to  forget  that  saucy  lad 
(Ostentation's  favorite  cad), 
The  Page,  who  look'd,  so  splendidly  clad, 
Like  a  Page  of  the  "  Wealth  of  Nations." 

But  the  Coachman  carried  off  the  state, 
With  what  was  a  Lancashire  body  of  late 

Turn'd  into  a  Dresden  Figure ; 
With  a  bridal  Nosegay  of  early  bloom, 
About  the  size  of  a  birchen  broom, 
And  so  huge  a  White  Favor,  had  Gog  been  Groom 

He  would  not  have  worn  a  bigger. 

And  then  to  see  the  Groom !  the  Count ! 
With  Foreign  Orders  to  such  an  amount, 

And  whiskers  so  wild — nay,  bestial ; 
He  seem'd  to  have  borrow'd  the  shaggy  hair 
As  well  as  the  Stars  of  the  Polar  Bear, 

To  make  him  look  celestial ! 

And  then — Great  Jove  ! — the  struggle,  the  crush, 
The  screams,  the  heaving,  the  awful  rush, 

The  swearing,  the  tearing,  and  fighting, 
The  hats  and  bonnets  smash'd  like  an  egg — 
To  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  Golden  Leg, 
Which,  between  the  steps  and  Miss  Kilmansegg, 

Was  fully  displayed  in  alighting  I 

From  the  Golden  Ankle  up  to  the  Knee 
There  it  was  for  the  mob  to  see ! 
A  shocking  act  had  it  chanced  to  be 

A  crooked  leg  or  a  skinny : 
But  although  a  magnificent  veil  she  wore, 
Such  as  never  was  seen  before, 
In  case  of  blushes  she  blush'd  no  more 

Than  George  the  First  on  a  guinea ! 

Another  step,  and  lo  I  she  was  launch'd ! 
All  in  white,  as  Brides  are  bianch'd. 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


With  a  wreath  of  most  wonderful  splendor — 
Diamonds,  and  pearls,  so  rich  in  device, 
That,  according  to  calculation  nice, 
Her  head  was  worth  as  royal  a  price 

As  the  head  of  the  Young  Pretender. 

Bravely  she  shone — and  shone  the  more 

As  she  sail'd  through  the  crowd  of  squalid  and  poor, 

Thief,  beggar,  and  tatterdemalion — 
Led  by  the  Count,  with  sloe-black  eyes 
Bright  with  triumph,  and  some  surprise, 
Like  Anson  on  making  sure  of  his  prize 

The  famous  Mexican  Galleon ! 

Anon  came  Lady  K.,  with  her  face 
Quite  made  up  to  act  with  grace, 

But  she  cut  the  performance  shorter ; 
For  instead  of  pacing  stately  and  stiff, 
At  the  stare  of  the  vulgar  she  took  a  miff, 
And  ran,  full  speed,  into  Church,  as  if 

To  get  married  before  her  daughter. 

But  Sir  Jacob  walk'd  more  slowly,  and  bow'd 
Right  and  left  to  the  gaping  crowd, 

Wherever  a  glance  was  seizable ; 
For  Sir  Jacob  thought  he  bowd  like  a  Guelph, 
And  therefore  bow'd  to  imp  and  elf, 
And  would  gladly  have  made  a  bow  to  himself, 

Had  such  a  bow  been  feasible. 

And  last — and  not  the  least  of  the  sight, 
Six  "  Handsome  Fortunes,"  all  in  white 
Came  to  help  in  the  marriage  rite, — 

And  rehearse  their  own  hymeneals ; 
And  then  the  bright  procession  to  close, 
They  were  followed  by  just  as  many  Beaux, 

Quite  fine  enough  for  Ideals. 

Glittering  men  and  splendid  dames, 
Thus  they  enter'd  the  porch  of  St.  James', 


158 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Pursued  by  a  thunder  of  laughter : 
For  the  Beadle  was  forced  to  intervene, 
For  Jim  the  Crow,  and  his  Mayday  Queen, 
With  her  gilded  ladle,  and  Jack  V  the  Green, 

Would  fain  have  follow'd  after ! 

Beadle-like  he  hush'd  the  shout ; 

But  the  temple  was  full  "  inside  and  out," 

And  a  buzz  kept  buzzing  all  round  about, 

Like  bees  when  the  day  is  sunny — 
A  buzz  universal  that  interfered 
With  the  rite  that  ought  to  have  been  revered, 
As  if  the  couple  already  were  smear'd 

With  Wedlock's  treacle  and  honey ! 

Yet  wedlock's  a  very  awful  thing  ! 
'Tis  something  like  that  feat  in  the  ring 
Which  requires  good  nerve  to  do  it — 
When  one  of  a  "  Grand  Equestrian  Troop  " 
Makes  a  jump  at  a  gilded  hoop, 
Not  certain  at  all 
Of  what  may  befall 
After  his  getting  through  it ! 

But  the  Count  he  felt  the  nervous  work 
No  more  than  any  polygamous  Turk, 

Or  bold  piratical  schipper, 
Who,  during  his  buccaneering  search, 
Would  as  soon  engage  "a  hand  "  in  church 

As  a  hand  on  board  his  clipper  ! 

And  how  did  the  bride  perform  her  part  ? 
Like  any  Bride  who  is  cold  at  heart, 

Mere  snow  with  the  ice's  glitter ; 
What  but  a  life  of  winter  for  her ! 
Bright  but  chilly,  alive  without  stir, 
So  splendidly  comfortless, — just  like  a  Fir 

When  the  frost  is  severe  and  bitter. 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG  169 


Such  were  the  future  man  and  wife  ! 
Whose  bale  or  bliss  to  the  end  of  life 
A  few  short  words  were  to  settle — 
Wilt  thou  have  this  woman  ? 

I  will — and  then, 
Wilt  thou  have  this  man  ? 
I  will,  and  Amen — 
And  those  Two  were  one  Flesh,  in  the  Angels'  ken. 
Except  one  Leg — that  was  metal. 

Then  the  names  were  signed — and  kiss'd  the  kiss  • 
And  the  Bride,  who  came  from  her  coach  a  Miss, 

As  a  Countess  walk'd  to  her  carriage — 
Whilst  Hymen  preen'd  his  plumes  like  a  dove, 
And  Cupid  flutter'd  his  wings  above, 
In  the  shape  of  a  fly — as  little  a  Love 

As  ever  look'd  in  at  a  marriage ! 

Another  crash — and  away  they  dash'd, 
And  the  gilded  carriage  and  footmen  flash'd 

From  the  eyes  of  the  gaping  people — 
Who  turn'd  to  gaze  at  the  toe-and-heel 
Of  the  Golden  Boys  beginning  a  reel, 
To  the  merry  sound  of  a  wedding  peal 

From  St.  James's  musical  steeple. 

Those  wedding-bells  !  those  wedding-bells ! 
How  sweetly  they  sound  in  pastoral  dells 

From  a  tow'r  in  an  ivy-green  jacket ! 
But  town-made  joys  how  dearly  they  cost ; 
And  after  all  are  tumbled  and  tost, 
Like  a  peal  from  a  London  steeple,  and  lost 

In  town-made  riot  and  racket. 

The  wedding-peal,  how  sweetly  it  peals 
With  grass  or  heather  beneath  our  heels, — 

For  bells  are  Music's  laughter ! — 
But  a  London  peal,  well  mingled,  be  sure, 
With  vulgar  noises  and  voices  impure, 


160 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


What  a  harsh  and  discordant  overture, 
To  the  Harmony  meant  to  come  after ! 

But  hence  with  Discord — perchance,  too  soon 
To  cloud  the  face  of  the  honeymoon 

With  a  dismal  occultation  ! 
Whatever  Fate's  concerted  trick, 
The  Countess  and  Count,  at  \he  present  nick, 
Have  a  chicken  and  not  a  crow  to  pick 

At  a  sumptuous  Cold  Collation. 

A  Breakfast — no  unsubstantial  mess, 
But  one  in  the  style  of  Good  Queen  Bess, 

Who, — hearty  as  hippocampus, — 
Broke  her  fast  with  ale  and  beef, 
Instead  of  toast  and  the  Chinese  leaf, 

And  in  lieu  of  anchovy — grampus ! 

A  breakfast  of  fowl,  and  fish,  and  flesh, 
Whatever  was  sweet,  or  salt,  or  fresh ; 

With  wines  the  most  rare  and  curious — 
Wines,  of  the  richest  flavor  and  hue ; 
With  fruits  from  the  worlds  both  Old  and  New ; 
And  fruits  obtained  before  they  were  due 

At  a  discount  most  usurious. 

For  wealthy  palates  there  be  that  scout 
What  is  in  season,  for  what  is  out, 

And  prefer  all  precocious  savor : 
For  instance,  early  green  peas,  of  the  sort 
That  costs  some  four  or  five  guineas  a  quart : 

Where  the  Mint  is  the  principal  flavor. 

And  many  a  wealthy  man  was  there, 
Such  as  the  wealthy  City  could  spare, 

To  put  in  a  portly  appearance — 
Men  whom  their  fathers  had  help'd  to  gild  : 
And  men  who  had  had  their  fortunes  to  build, 
And — much  to  their  credit — had  richly  filPd 

Their  purses  by  pursy-verance. 


MISS  KlLMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG.  161 


Men,  by  popular  rumor  at  least. 
Not  the  last  to  enjoy  a  feast ! 

And  truly  they  were  not  idle ! 
Luckier  far  than  the  chestnut  tits, 
Which,  down  at  the  door,  stood  champing  their  bitts, 

At  a  different  sort  of  bridle. 

For  the  time  was  come — and  the  whisker'd  Count 
Help'd  his  Bride  in  the  carriage  to  mount, 

And  fain  would  the  Muse  deny  it, 
But  the  crowd,  including  two  butchers  in  blue 
(The  regular  killing  Whitechapel  hue), 
Of  her  Precious  Calf  had  as  ample  a  view, 

As  if  they  had  come  to  buy  it ! 

Then  away  !  away  !  with  all  the  speed 
That  golden  spurs  can  give  to  the  steed, — 
Both  Yellow  Boys  and  Guineas  indeed, 

Concurr'd  to  urge  the  cattle — 
Away  they  went,  with  favors  white, 
Yellow  jackets,  and  pannels  bright, 
And  left  the  mob,  like  a  mob  at  night, 

Agape  at  the  sound  of  a  rattle. 

Away  !  away  !  they  rattled  and  roll'd, 

The  Count,  and  his  Bride,  and  her  Leg  of  Gold — 

That  faded  charm  to  the  charmer ! 
Away, — through  Old  Brentford  rang  the  din, 
Of  wheels  and  heels,  on  their  way  to  win 
That  hill,  named  after  one  of  her  kin, 

The  Hill  of  the  Golden  Farmer ! 

Gold,  still  Gold — it  flew  like  dust ! 

It  tipp'd  the  post-boy,  and  paid  the  trust ; 

In  each  open  palm  it  was  freely  thrust ; 

There  was  nothing  but  giving  and  taking  I 
And  if  gold  could  ensure  the  future  hour, 
What  hopes  attended  that  Bride  to  her  bow'r, 
But  alas  !  even  hearts  with  a  four-horse  pow'r 

Of  opulence  end  in  breaking ! 
19 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


HER  HONEYMOON. 

The  moon — the  moon,  so  silver  and  cold, 
Her  fickle  temper  has  oft  been  told, 

Now  shady — now  bright  and  sunny — 
But  of  all  the  lunar  things  that  change, 
The  one  that  shows  most  fickle  and  strange, 
And  takes  the  most  eccentric  range 

Is  the  moon — so  called — of  honey  ! 

To  some  a  full-grown  orb  reveal'd, 
As  big  and  as  round  as  Norval's  shield, 

And  as  bright  as  a  burner  Bude-lighted  ; 
To  others  as  dull,  and  dingy,  and  damp, 
As  any  oleaginous  lamp, 
Of  the  regular  old  parochial  stamp, 

In  a  London  fog  benighted. 

To  the  loving,  a  bright  and  constant  sphere, 
That  makes  earth's  commonest  scenes  appear 

All  poetic,  romantic  and  tender : 
Hanging  with  jewels  a  cabbage-stump, 
And  investing  a  common  post,  or  a  pump, 
A  currant-bush,  or  a  gooseberry  clump, 

With  a  halo  of  dreamlike  splendor. 

A  sphere  such  as  shone  from  Italian  skies, 
In  Juliet's  dear,  dark,  liquid  eyes, 

Tipping  trees  with  its  argent  braveries — 
And  to  couples  not  favor'd  with  Fortune's  boons, 
One  of  the  most  delightful  of  moons, 
For  it  brightens  their  pewter  platters  and  spoons 

Like  a  silver  service  of  Savory's ! 

For  all  is  bright,  and  beauteous,  and  clear, 
And  the  meanest  thing  most  precious  and  dear 

When  the  magic  of  love  is  present : 
Love,  that  lends  a  sweetness  and  grace 
To  the  humblest  spot  and  the  plainest  face — 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG.  Lfg 


Love  that  sweetens  sugarless  tea, 
And  makes  contentment  and  joy  agree 

With  the  coarsest  boarding  and  bedding : 
Love  that  no  golden  ties  can  attach, 
But  nestles  under  the  humblest  thatch, 
And  will  fly  away  from  an  Emperor's  match 

To  dance  at  a  Penny  Wedding ! 

Oh,  happy,  happy,  thrice  happy  state, 
When  such  a  bright  Planet  governs  the  fate 

Of  a  pair  of  united  lovers ! 
'Tis  theirs,  in  spite  of  the  Serpent's  hiss, 
To  enjoy  the  pure  primeval  kiss, 
With  as  much  of  the  old  original  bliss 

As  mortality  ever  recovers ! 

.  There's  strength  in  double  joints,  no  doubt, 
In  double  X  Ale,  and  Dublin  Stout, 
That  the  single  sorts  know  nothing  about— 

And  a  fist  is  strongest  when  doubled — 
And  double  aqua-fortis,  of  course, 
And  double  soda-water,  perforce, 

Are  the  strongest  that  ever  bubbled  ! 

There's  double  beauty  whenever  a  Swan 
Swims  on  a  Lake,  with  her  double  thereon  : 
And  ask  the  gardener,  Luke  or  John, 

Of  the  beauty  of  double-blowing — 
A  double  dahlia  delights  the  eye  ; 
And  it 's  far  the  loveliest  sight  in  the  sky 

When  a  double  rainbow  is  glowing  I 

There's  warmth  in  a  pair  of  double  soles  ; 
As  well  as  a  double  allowance  of  coals — 

In  a  coat  that  is  double-breasted — 
[n  double  windows  and  double  doors  ; 
And  a  double  U  wind  is  blest  by  scores 

For  its  warmth  to  the  tender-chested. 


164 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


There's  a  two-fold  sweetness  in  double  pipes. 
And  a  double  barrel  and  double  snipes 

Give  the  sportsman  a  duplicate  pleasure  : 
There's  double  safety  in  double  locks  ; 
And  double  letters  bring  cash  for  the  box ; 
And  all  the  world  knows  that  double  knocks 

Are  gentility's  double  measure. 

There's  a  double  sweetness  in  double^ rhymes, 
And  a  double  at  Whist  and  a  double  Times 

In  profit  are  certainly  double — 
By  doubling,  the  Hare  contrives  to  escape : 
And  all  seamen  delight  in  a  doubled  Cape, 

And  a  double-reef'd  topsail  in  trouble. 

There's  a  double  chuck  at  a  double  chin, 

And  of  course  there's  a  double  pleasure  therein, 

If  the  parties  were  brought  to  telling  : 
And  however  our  Dennises  take  offence, 
A  double  meaning  shows  double  sense : 

And  if  proverbs  tell  truth, 
A  double  tooth 

Is  Wisdom's  adopted  dwelling  ! 

But  double  wisdom,  and  pleasure,  and  sense, 
Beauty,  respect,  strength,  comfort,  and  thence 

Through  whatever  the  list  discovers, 
They  are  all  in  the  double  blessedness  summ'd, 
Of  what  was  formerly  double-drumm'd, 

The  Marriage  of  two  true  Lovers  ! 

Now  the  Kilmansegg  Moon — it  must  be  told — 
Though  instead  of  silver  it  tipp'd  with  gold — 
Shone  rather  wan,  and  distant,  and  cold 

And  before  its  days  were  at  thirty, 
Such  gloomy  clouds  began  to  collect, 
With  an  ominous  ring  of  ill  effect, 
As  gave  but  too  much  cause  to  expect 

Such  weather  as  seamen  call  dirty  f 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


And  yet  the  moon  was  the  "  Young  May  Moon," 
And  the  scented  hawthorn  had  blossom'd  soon, 

And  the  thrush  and  the  blackbird  were  singing — 
The  snow-white  lambs  were  skipping  in  play, 
And  the  bee  was  humming  a  tune  all  day 
To  flowers  as  welcome  as  flowers  in  May, 

And  the  trout  in  the  stream  was  springing ! 

But  what  were  the  hues  of  the  blooming  earth, 
Its  scents — its  sounds — or  the  music  and  mirth 

Of  its  furr'd  or  its  feather'd  creatures, 
To  a  Pair  in  the  world's  last  sordid  stage, 
Who  had  never  look'd  into  Nature's  page, 
And  had  strange  ideas  of  a  Golden  Age, 

Without  any  Arcadian  features  ? 

And  what  were  joys  of  the  pastoral  kind 

To  a  Bride — town-made — with  a  heart  and  mind 

With  simplicity  ever  at  battle  ? 
A  bride  of  an  ostentatious  race, 
Who,  thrown  in  the  Golden  Farmer's  place, 
Would  have  trimm'd  her  shepherds  with  golden  lace, 

And  gilt  the  horns  of  her  cattle. 

She  could  not  please  the  pigs  with  her  whim, 
And  the  sheep  wouldn't  cast  their  eyes  at  a  limb 

For  which  she  had  been  such  a  martyr : 
The  deer  in  the  park,  and  the  colts  at  grass, 
And  the  cows  unheeded  let  it  pass; 
And  the  ass  on  the  common  was  such  an  ass, 
That  he  wouldn't  have  swapp'd 
The  thistle  he  cropp'd 
For  her  Leg,  including  the  Garter  ! 

She  hated  lanes,  and  she  hated  fields — 
She  hated  all  that  the  country  yields — 

And  barely  knew  turnips  from  clover ; 
She  hated  walking  in  any  shape, 
And  a  country  stile  was  an  awkward  scrape, 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Without  the  bribe  of  a  mob  to  gape 
At  the  Leg  in  clambering  over  ! 

O  blessed  nature,  "O  rus  !  O  rus !' 
Who  cannot  sigh  for  the  country  thus, 

Absorbed  in  a  worldly  torpor — 
Who  does  not  yearn  for  its  meadow-sweet  breath 
Untainted  by  care,  and  crime,  and  death, 
And  to  stand  sometimes  upon  grass  or  heath — 

That  soul,  spite  of  gold,  is  a  pauper  ! 

But  to  hail  the  pearly  advent  of  morn, 
And  relish  the  odor  fresh  from  the  thorn, 

She  was  far  too  pamper'd  a  madam — 
Or  to  joy  in  the  daylight  waxing  strong, 
While,  after  ages  of  sorrow  and  wrong, 
The  scorn  of  the  proud,  the  misrule  of  the  strong, 
And  all  the  woes  that  to  man  belong, 
The  lark  still  carols  the  self-same  song 

That  he  did  to  the  uncurst  Adam ! 

The  Lark  !  she  had  given  all  Leipsic's  flocks 
For  a  Vauxhall  tune  in  a  musical  box  ; 

And  as  for  the  birds  in  the  thicket, 
Thrush  or  ousel  in  leafy  niche, 
The  linnet  or  finch,  she  was  far  too  rich 
To  care  for  a  Morning  Concert  to  which 

She  was  welcome  without  any  ticket. 

Gold,  still  gold,  her  standard  of  old, 
All  pastoral  joys  were  tried  by  gold, 

Or  by  fancies  golden  and  crural — 
Till  ere  she  had  pass'd  one  week  unblest, 
As  her  agricultural  Uncle's  guest, 
Her  mind  was  made  up  and  fully  imprest 

That  felicity  could  not  be  rural ! 

And  the  Count  ? — to  the  snow-white  lambs  at  play, 
And  all  the  scents  and  the  sights  of  May, 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


And  the  birds  that  warbled  their  passion, 
His  ears,  and  dark  eyes,  and  decided  nose, 
Were  as  deaf  and  as  blind  and  as  dull  as  those 
That  overlook  the  Bouquet  de  Rose, 
The  Huile  Antique, 
And  Parfum  Unique, 
In  a  Barber's  Temple  of  Fashion. 

To  tell,  indeed,  the  true  extent 
Of  his  rural  bias  so  far  it  went 

As  to  covet  estates  in  ring  fences — 
And  for  rural  lore  he  had  learn'd  in  town 
That  the  country  was  green,  turn'd  up  with  brown, 
And  garnish'd  with  trees  that  a  man  might  cut  down 

Instead  of  his  own  expenses. 

And  yet  had  that  fault  been  his  only  one, 

The  Pair  might  have  had  few  quarrels  or  none, 

For  their  tastes  thus  far  were  in  common  ; 
But  faults  he  had  that  a  haughty  bride 
With  a  Golden  Leg  could  hardly  abide — 
Faults  that  would  even  have  roused  the  pride 

Of  a  far  less  metalsome  woman  ! 

It  was  early  days  indeed  for  a  wife, 
In  the  very  spring  of  her  married  life, 

To  be  chill'd  by  its  wintry  weather — 
But  instead  of  sitting  as  Love-Birds  do, 
Or  Hymen's  turtles  that  bill  and  coo — 
Enjoying  their  "  moon  and  honey  for  two" 

They  were  scarcely  seen  together  ! 

In  vain  she  sat  with  her  Precious  Leg 
A  little  exposed,  a  la  Kilmansegg, 

And  roll'd  her  eyes  in  their  sockets ! 
He  left  her  in  spite  of  her  tender  regards, 
And  those  loving  murmurs  described  by  bards, 
For  the  rattling  of  dice  and  the  shuffling  of  cards, 

And  the  poking  of  balls  into  pockets  ! 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Moreover  he  loved  the  deepest  stake 

And  the  heaviest  bets  the  players  would  make  ; 

And  he  drank — the  reverse  of  sparely, — 
And  he  used  strange  curses  that  made  her  fret : 
And  when  he  play'd  with  herself  at  piquet 

She  found,  to  her  cost, 

For  she  always  lost, 
That  the  Count  did  not  count  quite  fairly. 

And  then  came  dark  mistrust  and  doubt, 
Gather'd  by  worming  his  secrets  out, 

And  slips  in  his  conversations — 
Fears,  which  all  her  peace  destroy'd, 
That  his  title  was  null — his  coffers  were  void — 
And  his  French  Chateau  was  in  Spain,  or  enjoy'd 

The  most  airy  of  situations. 

But  still  his  heart — if  he  had  such  a  part — 
She — only  she — might  possess  his  heart, 

And  hold  his  affections  in  fetters — 
Alas !  that  hope,  like  a  crazy  ship, 
Was  forced  its  anchor  and  cable  to  slip 
When,  seduced  by  her  fears,  she  took  a  dip 

In  his  private  papers  and  letters. 

Letters  that  told  of  dangerous  leagues  ; 
And  notes  that  hinted  as  many  intrigues 

As  the  Count's  in  the  "  Barber  of  Seville  " — 
In  short  such  mysteries  came  to  light, 
That  the  Countess-Bride,  on  the  thirtieth  night, 
Woke  and  started  up  in  affright, 
And  kick'd  and  scream'd  with  all  her  might, 
And  finally  fainted  away  outright, 

For  she  dreamt  she  had  married  the  Devil r 

HER  MISERY. 

Who  hath  not  met  with  home-made  bread, 
A  heavy  compound  of  putty  and  lead— 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG.  169 


And  home-made  wines  that  rack  the  head, 

And  home-made  liqueurs  and  waters  ? 
Home-made  pop  that  will  not  foam, 
And  home-made  dishes  that  drive  one  from  home, 
Not  to  name  each  mess, 
For  the  face  or  dress, 
Home-made  by  the  homely  daughters  ? 

Home-made  physic,  that  sickens  the  sick ; 
Thick  for  thin  and  thin  for  thick  ; — 
In  short  each  homogeneous  trick 

For  poisoning  domesticity  ? 
And  since  our  Parents,  called  the  First, 
A  little  family  squabble  nurst, 
Of  all  our  evils  the  worst  of  the  worst 

Is  home-made  infelicity. 

There's  a  Golden  Bird  that  claps  its  wings, 
And  dances  for  joy  on  its  perch,  and  sings 

With  a  Persian  exultation : 
For  the  Sun  is  shining  into  the  room, 
And  brightens  up  the  carpet-bloom, 
As  if  it  were  new,  bran  new  from  the  loom, 

Or  the  lone  Nun's  fabrication. 

And  thence  the  glorious  radiance  flames 
On  pictures  in  massy  gilded  frames — 
Enshrining,  however,  no  painted  Dames, 

But  portraits  of  colts  and  fillies — 
Pictures  hanging  on  walls  which  shine, 
In  spite  of  the  bard's  familiar  line, 

With  clusters  of  "  gilded  lilies." 

And  still  the  flooding  sunlight  shares 
Its  lustre  with  gilded  sofas  and  chairs, 
That  shine  as  if  freshly  burnish'd — 
And  gilded  tables,  with  glittering  stocks 
Of  gilded  china,  and  golden  clocks, 


70 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Toy,  and  trinket,  and  musical  box, 
That  Peace  and  Paris  have  furnish'd. 

And  lo  !  with  the  brightest  gleam  of  all 
The  glowing  sunbeam  is  seen  to  fall 

On  an  object  as  rare  as  splendid — 
The  golden  foot  of  the  Golden  Leg 
Of  the  Countess — once  Miss  Kilmansegg — 

But  there  all  sunshine  is  ended. 

Her  cheek  is  pale,  and  her  eye  is  dim, 
And  downward  cast,  yet  not  at  the  limb, 

Once  the  centre  of  all  speculation  ; 
But  downward  drooping  in  comfort's  dearth, 
As  gloomy  thoughts  are  drawn  to  the  earth — 
Whence  human  sorrows  derive  their  birth — 

By  a  moral  gravitation. 

Her  golden  hair  is  out  of  its  braids, 
And  her  sighs  betray  the  gloomy  shades 

That  her  evil  planet  revolves  in — 
And  tears  are  falling  that  catch  a  gleam 
So  bright  as  they  drop  in  the  sunny  beam, 
That  tears  of  aqua  regia  they  seem, 

The  water  that  gold  dissolves  in ! 

Yet,  not  in  filial  grief  were  shed 

Those  tears  for  a  mother's  insanity ; 
Nor  yet  because  her  father  was  dead, 
For  the  bowing  Sir  Jacob  had  bow'd  his  head 

To  Death — with  his  usual  urbanity  : 
The  waters  that  down  her  visage  rill'd 
Were  drops  of  unrectified  spirit  distill'd 
From  the  limbeck  of  Pride  and  Vanity. 

Tears  that  fell  alone  and  uncheckt, 
Without  relief,  and  without  respect, 
Like  the  fabled  pearls  that  the  pigs  neglect, 
When  pigs  have  that  opportunity — 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


And  of  all  the  griefs  that  mortals  share, 
The  one  that  seems  the  hardest  to  bear 
Is  the  grief  without  community. 

How  bless'd  the  heart  that  has  a  friend 
A  sympathizing  ear  to  lend 

To  troubles  too  great  to  smother  ! 
For  as  ale  and  porter,  when  flat,  are  restored, 
Till  a  sparkling  bubbling  head  they  afford, 
So  sorrow  is  cheer'd  by  being  pour'd 

From  one  vessel  into  another. 

But  friend  or  gossip  she  had  not  one 

To  hear  the  vile  deeds  that  the  Count  had  done, 

How  night  after  night  he  rambled ; 
And  how  she  had  learn'd  by  sad  degrees 
That  he  drank,  and  smoked,  and  worse  than  these 

That  he  "  swindled,  intrigued,  and  gambled." 

How  he  kiss'd  the  maids,  and  sparr'd  with  John 
And  came  to  bed  with  his  garments  on ; 

With  other  offences  as  heinous — 
And  brought  strange  gentlemen  home  to  dine, 
That  he  said  were  in  the  Fancy  Line, 
And  they  fancied  spirits  instead  of  wine, 
And  calFd  her  lap-dog  "  Wenus." 

Of  "  making  a  book  "  how  he  made  a  stir, 
But  never  had  written  a  line  to  her, 

Once  his  idol  and  Cara  Sposa : 
And  how  he  had  storm'd,  and  treated  her  ill, 
Because  she  refused  to  go  down  to  a  mill, 
She  didn't  know  where,  but  remember'd  still 

That  the  Miller's  name  was  Mendoza. 

How  often  he  waked  her  up  at  night, 
And  oftener  still  by  the  morning  light, 

Reeling  home  from  his  haunts  unlawful ; 
Singing  songs  that  shouldn't  be  sung, 


172 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Except  by  beggars  and  thieves  unhung— 
Or  volleying  oaths,  that  a  foreign  tongue 
Made  still  more  horrid  and  awful ! 

How  oft,  instead  of  otto  of  rose; 

With  vulgar  smells  he  offended  her  nose, 

From  gin,  tobacco,  and  onion  ! 
And  then  how  wildly  he  used  to  stare ! 
And  shake  his  fist  at  nothing,  and  swear, — 
And  pluck  by  the  handful  his  shaggy  hair, 
Till  he  look'd  like  a  study  of  Giant  Descair 

For  a  new  Edition  of  Bunyan  ! 

For  dice  will  run  the  contrary  way, 
As  well  is  known  to  all  who  play, 

And  cards  will  conspire  as  in  treason : 
And  what  with  keeping  a  hunting-box, 

Following  fox — 

Friends  in  flocks, 

Burgundies,  Hocks, 

From  London  Docks; 

Stultz's  frocks, 

Manton  and  Nock's 

Barrels  and  locks, 

Shooting  blue  rocks, 

Trainers  and  jocks, 

Buskins  and  socks, 

Pugilistical  knocks, 

And  fighting-cocks, 
[f  he  found  himself  short  in  funds  and  stocks, 
These  rhymes  will  furnish  the  reason ! 

His  friends,  indeed,  were  falling  away — 
Friends  who  insist  on  play  or  pay — 
And  he  fear'd  at  no  very  distant  day 
To  be  cut  by  Lord  and  by  cadger, 
As  one  who  was  gone  or  going  to  smash, 
For  his  checks  no  longer  drew  the  cash, 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


Because,  as  his  comrades  explain'd  in  flash, 
"  He  had  overdrawn  his  badger." 

Gold,  gold — alas !  for  the  gold 

Spent  where  souls  are  bought  and  sold 

In  Vice's  Walpurgis  revel ! 
Alas  !  for  muffles,  and  bulldogs,  and  guns, 
The  leg  that  walks,  and  the  leg  that  runs, 
All  real  evils,  though  Fancy  ones, 
When  they  lead  to  debt,  dishonor,  and  duns, 

Nay,  to  death,  and  perchance  the  devil ! 

Alas  !  for  the  last  of  a  Golden  race ! 

Had  she  cried  her  wrongs  in  the  market-place, 

She  had  warrant  for  all  her  clamor — 
For  the  worst  of  rogues,  and  brutes,  and  rakes, 
Was  breaking  her  heart  by  constant  aches, 
With  as  little  remorse  as  the  Pauper  who  breaks 

A  flint  with  a  parish  hammer ! 

HER  LAST  WILL. 

Now  the  Precious  Leg  while  cash  was  flush, 
Or  the  Count's  acceptance  worth  a  rush, 

Had  never  excited  dissension ; 
But  no  sooner  the  stocks  began  to  fall, 
Than,  without  any  ossification  at  all, 
The  limb  became  what  people  call 

A  perfect  bone  of  contention. 

For  alter'd  days  brought  alter'd  ways, 
And  instead  of  the  complimentary  phrase, 

So  current  before  her  bridal — 
The  Countess  heard,  in  language  low, 
That  her  Precious  Leg  was  precious  slow, 
A  good  'un  to  look  at  but  bad  to  go, 

And  kept  quite  a  sum  lying  idle, 

That  instead  of  playing  musical  airs, 
Like  Colin's  foot  in  going  up-stairs — 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


As  the  wife  in  the  Scottish  ballad  declares — 

It  made  an  infernal  stumping, 
Whereas  a  member  of  cork,  or  wood, 
Would  be  lighter  and  cheaper  and  quite  as  good, 

Without  the  unbearable  thumping. 

P'rhaps  she  thought  it  a  decent  thing 
To  show  her  calf  to  cobbler  and  king, 

But  nothing  could  be  absurder — 
While  none  but  the  crazy  would  advertise 
Their  gold  before  their  servants'  eyes, 
Who  of  course  some  night  would  make  it  a  prize, 

By  a  Shocking  and  Barbarous  Murder. 

But  spite  of  hint,  and  threat,  and  scoff, 

The  Leg  kept  its  situation  : 
For  legs  are  not  to  be  taken  off 

By  a  verbal  amputation. 

And  mortals  when  they  take  a  whim, 
The  greater  the  folly  the  stiffer  the  limb 

That  stands  upon  it  or  by  it — 
So  the  Countess,  then  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
At  her  marriage  refused  to  stir  a  peg, 
Till  the  Lawyers  had  fastened  on  her  Leg, 

As  fast  as  the  Law  could  tie  it. 

Firmly  then — and  more  firmly  yet — 

With  scorn  for  scorn,  and  with  threat  for  threat, 

The  Proud  One  confronted  the  Cruel : 
And  loud  and  bitter  the  quarrel  arose, 
Fierce  and  merciless — one  of  those, 
With  spoken  daggers,  and  looks  like  blows, 

In  all  but  the  bloodshed  a  duel ! 

Rash,  and  wild,  and  wretched,  and  wrong, 

Were  the  words  that  came  from  Weak  and  Strong, 

Till  madden'd  for  desperate  matters, 
Fierce  as  tigress  escaped  from  her  den, 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG  175 


She  flew  to  her  desk — 'twas  open'd — and  then, 
In  the  time  it  takes  to  try  a  pen, 
Or  the  clerk  to  utter  his  slow  Amen, 
Her  Will  was  in  fifty  tatters ! 

But  the  Count,  instead  of  curses  wild, 
Only  nodded  his  head  and  smiled, 
As  if  at  the  spleen  of  an  angry  child  ; 

But  the  calm  was  deceitful  and  sinister ! 
A  lull  like  the  lull  of  the  treacherous  sea — 
For  Hate  in  that  moment  had  sworn  to  be 
The  Golden  Leg's  sole  Legatee, 

And  that  very  night  to  administer ! 

HER  DEATH. 

'Tis  a  stern  and  startling  thing  to  think 
How  often  mortality  stands  on  the  brink 

Of  its  grave  without  any  misgiving : 
And  yet  in  this  slippery  world  of  strife, 
In  the  stir  of  human  bustle  so  rife, 
There  are  daily  sounds  to  tell  us  that  Life 

Is  dying,  and  Death  is  living ! 

Ay,  Beauty  the  Girl,  and  Love  the  Boy, 
Bright  as  they  are  with  hope  and  joy, 

How  their  souls  would  sadden  instanter, 
To  remember  that  one  of  those  wedding  bells, 
Which  ring  so  merrily  through  the  dells, 
Is  the  same  that  knells 
Our  last  farewells, 
Only  broken  into  a  canter ! 

But  breath  and  blood  set  doom  at  naught- 
How  little  the  wretched  Countess  thought, 

When  at  night  she  unloosed  her  sandal, 
That  the  Fates  had  woven  her  burial-cloth, 
\nd  that  Death,  in  the  shape  of  a  Death's  Head  Moth, 

Was  fluttering  round  her  candle  ! 


176 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


As  she  look'd  at  her  clock  of  or-molu, 

For  the  hours  she  had  gone  so  wearily  through 

At  the  end  of  a  day  of  trial — 
How  little  she  saw  in  her  pride  of  prime 
The  dart  of  Death  in  the  Hand  of  Time- 
That  hand  which  moved  on  the  dial ! 

As  she  went  with  her  taper  up  the  stair, 
How  little  her  swollen  eye  was  aware 

That  the  Shadow  which  follow'd  was  double ! 
Or  when  she  closed  her  chamber  door, 
It  was  shutting  out,  and  for  evermore, 

The  world — and  its  worldly  trouble. 

Little  she  dreamt,  as  she  laid  aside 

Her  jewels — after  one  glance  of  pride — 

They  were  solemn  bequests  to  Vanity — 
Or  when  her  robes  she  began  to  doff, 
That  she  stood  so  near  to  the  putting  off 

Of  the  flesh  that  clothes  humanity. 

And  when  she  quench'd  the  taper's  light, 
How  little  she  thought  as  the  smoke  took  flight 
That  her  day  was  done — and  merged  in  a  night 
Of  dreams  and  duration  uncertain — 

Or,  along  with  her  own, 

That  a  Hand  of  Bone 
Was  closing  mortality's  curtain ! 

But  life  is  sweet,  and  mortality's  blind, 
And  youth  is  hopeful,  and  Fate  is  kind 

In  concealing  the  day  of  sorrow ; 
And  enough  is  the  present  tense  of  toil — 
For  this  world  is,  to  all,  a  stifnsh  soil — 
And  the  mind  flies  back  with  a  glad  recoil 

From  the  debts  not  due  till  to-morrow. 

Wherefore  else  does  the  Spirit  fly 
And  bid  its  daily  cares  good-bye, 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


177 


Along  with  its  daily  clothing  ? 
Just  as  the  felon  condemned  to  die — 

With  a  very  natural  loathing — 
Leaving  the  Sheriff  to  dream  of  ropes, 
From  his  gloomy  cell  in  a  vision  elopes, 
To  caper  on  sunny  greens  and  slopes, 

Instead  of  the  dance  upon  nothing. 

Thus,  even  thus,  the  Countess  slept, 
While  Death  still  nearer  and  nearer  crept, 

Like  the  Thane  who  smote  the  sleeping — 
But  her  mind  was  busy  with  early  joys, 
Her  golden  treasures  and  golden  toys, 
That  flash'd  a  bright 
And  golden  light 
1    Under  lids  still  red  with  weeping. 

The  golden  doll  that  she  used  to  hug ! 
Her  coral  of  gold,  and  the  golden  mug  ! 

Her  godfather's  golden  presents  ! 
The  golden  service  she  had  at  her  meals, 
The  golden  watch,  and  chain,  and  seals,. 
Her  golden  scissors,  and  thread,  and  reels, 

And  her  golden  fishes  and  pheasants ! 

The  golden  guineas  in  silken  purse — 

And  the  Golden  Legends  she  heard  from  her  nurse, 

Of  the  Mayor  in  his  gilded  carriage — 
And  London  streets  that  were  paved  with  gold — 
And  the  Golden  Eggs  that  were  laid  of  old — 
With  each  golden  thing 
To  the  golden  ring 
At  her  own  auriferous  Marriage ! 

And  still  the  golden  light  of  the  sun 
Through  her  golden  dream  appear'd  to  run 
Though  the  night  that  roar'd  without  was  one 

To  terrify  seamen  or  gipsies — 
While  the  moon,  as  if  in  malicious  mirth, 
13 


178 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Kept  peeping  down  at  the  ruffled  earth, 
As  though  she  enjoyed  the  tempest's  birth, 
In  revenge  of  her  old  eclipses. 

But  vainly,  vainly,  the  thunder  fell, 

For  the  soul  of  the  Sleeper  was  under  a  spell 

That  time  had  lately  embitter'd — 
The  Count,  as  once  at  her  foot  he  knelt— 
That  Foot  which  now  he  wanted  to  melt  I 
But — hush  ! — 'twas  a  stir  at  her  pillow  she  felt — 

And  some  object  before  her  glitter'd. 

'Twas  the  Golden  Leg  ! — she  knew  its  gleam  ! 
And  up  she  started,  and  tried  to  scream, — 

But  ev'n  in  the  moment  she  started — 
Down  came  the  limb  with  a  frightful  smash, ' 
And,  lost  in  the  universal  flash 
That  her  eyeballs  made  at  so  mortal  a  crash, 

The  Spark,  called  Vital,  departed ! 

*  *  *  * 

Gold,  still  gold  !  hard,  yellow,  and  cold, 
For  gold  she  had  lived,  and  she  died  for  gold — 
By  a  golden  weapon — not  oaken  ; 
In  the  morning  they  found  her  all  alone — 
Stiff,  and  bloody,  and  cold  as  a  stone — 
But  her  Leg,  the  Golden  Leg  was  gone, 
And  the  "  Golden  Bowl  was  broken !" 

Gold — still  gold  !  it  haunted  her  yet — 
At  the  Golden  Lion  the  Inquest  met — 

Its  foreman,  a  carver  and  gilder — 
And  the  Jury  debated  from  twelve  till  three 
What  the  Verdict  ought  to  be, 
And  they  brought  it  in  as  Felo  de  Se, 

"  Because  her  own  Leg  had  killed  her !" 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 


HER  MORAL. 

Gold!  Gold!  Gold!  Gold! 
Bright  and  yellow,  hard  and  cold, 
Molten,  graven,  hammer'd,  and  roll'd ; 
Heavy  to  get,  and  light  to  hold ; 
Hoarded,  barter'd,  bought,  and  sold, 
Stolen,  borrow'd,  squander'd,  doled  : 
Spurn'd  by  the  young,  but  hugg'd  by  the  old 
To  the  very  verge  of  the  churchyard  mould ; 
Price  of  many  a  crime  untold ; 
Gold  !  Gold !  Gold !  Gold : 
Good  or  bad  a  thousand- fold  ! 

How  widely  its  agencies  vary — 
To  save — to  ruin — to  curse — to  bless — 
As  even  its  minted  coins  express, 
Now  stamp'd  with  the  image  of  Good  Queen  Bess, 

And  now  of  a  Bloody  Mary ! 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


FAIR  INES. 


O  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines  ? 

She's  gone  into  the  West, 

To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 

And  rob  the  world  of  rest : 

She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 

The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 

With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek, 

And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

ii. 

0  turn  again,  fair  Ines, 
Before  the  fall  of  night, 

For  fear  the  moon  should  shine  alone, 

And  stars  unrivall'd  bright ; 

And  blessed  will  the  lover  be 

That  walks  beneath  their  light, 

And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

1  dare  not  even  write ! 

in. 

Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines, 

That  gallant  cavalier, 

Who  rode  so  gaily  by  thy  side, 

And  whisper'd  thee  so  near  ! 

Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home, 

Or  no  true  lovers  here, 

That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 

The  dearest  of  the  dear  ? 


FAIR  INES. 


IV. 

I  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 

Descend  along  the  shore, 

With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 

And  banners  wav'd  before ; 

And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay, 

And  snowy  plumes  they  wore ; 

It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream, 

— If  it  had  been  no  more ! 

v. 

Alas,  alas,  fair  Ines, 

She  went  away  with  song, 

With  Music  waiting  on  her  steps, 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng  ; 

But  some  were  sad  and  felt  no  mirth, 

But  only  Music's  wrong, 

In  sounds  that  sang  Farewell,  Farewell, 

To  her  you've  loved  so  long. 

VI. 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines, 

That  vessel  never  bore 

So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck, 

Nor  danced  so  light  before,— 

Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea, 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore  ! 

The  smile  that  blest  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more ! 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


BALLAD 


Spring  it  is  cheery, 

Winter  is  dreary, 
Green  leaves  hang,  but  the  brown  must  fly ; 

When  he's  forsaken, 

Wither'd  and  shaken, 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

Love  will  not  clip  him, 

Maids  will  not  lip  him, 
Maud  and  Marian  pass  him  by ; 

Youth  it  is  sunny, 

Age  has  no  honey, — 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

June  it  was  jolly, 

O  for  its  folly  ! 
A  dancing  leg  and  a  laughing  eye  $ 

Youth  may  be  silly, 

Wisdom  is  chilly, — 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

Friends  they  are  scanty, 

Beggars  are  plenty, 
If  he  has  followers,  I  know  why ; 

Gold's  in  his  clutches 

(Buying  him  crutches  !) — 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 


RUTH. 


183 


RUTH. 


She  stood  breast  high  amid  tne  corn, 
Clasp'd  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush 
Deeply  ripened  ; — such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell, 
But  long  lashes  veiPd  a  light, 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim, 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim ; — 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks  : — 

Sure,  I  said,  heav'n  did  not  mean, 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean, 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


AUTUMN. 


The  Autumn  is  old, 
The  sere  leaves  are  flying  ;— 
He  hath  gather'd  up  gold, 
And  now  he  is  dying  ; 
Old  age,  begin  sighing  ! 

The  vintage  is  ripe, 
The  harvest  is  heaping ; 
But  some  that  have  sow'd 
Have  no  riches  for  reaping 
Poor  wretch,  fall  a  weeping ! 

The  year's  in  the  wane, 
There  is  nothing  adorning 
The  night  has  no  eve, 
And  the  day  has  no  morning 
Cold  winter  gives  warning. 

The  rivers  run  chill, 
The  red  sun  is  sinking, 
And  I  am  grown  old, 
And  life  is  fast  shrinking ; 
Here's  enow  for  sad  thinking 


SONG. 


SONG. 

0  lady,  leave  thy  silken  thread 

And  flowery  tapestrie : 
There's  living  roses  on  the  bush, 

And  blossoms  on  the  tree  ; 
Stoop  where  thou  wilt,  thy  careless  hand 

Some  random  bud  will  meet ; 
Thou  canst  not  tread,  but  thou  wilt  find 

The  daisy  at  thy  feet. 

'Tis  like  the  birthday  of  the  world, 

When  earth  was  born  in  bloom  ; 
The  light  is  made  of  many  dyes, 

The  air  is  all  perfume  ; 
There's  crimson  buds,  and  white  and  blue — 

The  very  rainbow  show'rs 
Have  turned  to  blossoms  where  they  fell, 

And  sown  the  earth  with  flowers. 

There's  fairy  tulips  in  the  East, 

The  garden  of  the  sun  ; 
The  very  streams  reflect  the  hues, 

And  blossom  as  they  run  : 
While  Morn  opes  like  a  crimson  rose, 

Still  wet  with  pearly  showers ; 
Then,  lady,  leave  the  silken  thread 

Thou  twinest  into  flowers ! 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


ODE  TO  MELANCHOLY. 


Come,  let  us  set  our  careful  breasts, 
Like  Philomel,  against  the  thorn, 
To  aggravate  the  inward  grief, 
That  makes  her  accents  so  forlorn ; 
The  world  has  many  cruel  points, 
Whereby  our  bosoms  have  been  torn, 
And  there  are  dainty  themes  of  grief, 
In  sadness  to  outlast  the  morn, — 
True  honor's  dearth,  affection's  death, 
Neglectful  pride,  and  cankering  scorn, 
With  all  the  piteous  tales  that  tears 
Have  water'd  since  the  world  was  born. 

The  world  !— it  is  a  wilderness, 
Where  tears  are  hung  on  every  tree  ; 
For  thus  my  gloomy  phantasy 
Makes  all  things  weep  with  me ! 
Come  let  us  sit  and  watch  the  sky, 
And  fancy  clouds,  where  no  clouds  be ; 
Grief  is  enough  to  blot  the  eye, 
And  make  heaven  black  with  misery. 
Why  should  birds  sing  such  merry  notes, 
Unless  they  were  more  blest  than  we  ? 
No  sorrow  ever  chokes  their  throats, 
Except  sweet  nightingale  ;  for  she 
Was  born  to  pain  our  hearts  the  more 
With  her  sad  melody. 
Why  shines  the  sun,  except  that  he 


ODE  TO  MELANCHOLY. 


Makes  gloomy  nooks  for  Grief  to  hide, 
And  pensive  shades  for  Melancholy, 
When  all  the  earth  is  bright  beside  ? 
Let  clay  wear  smiles,  and  green  grass  wave, 
Mirth  shall  not  win  us  back  again, 
Whilst  man  is  made  of  his  own  grave, 
And  fairest  clouds  but  gilded  rain ! 

I  saw  my  mother  in  her  shroud, 

Her  cheek  was  cold  and  very  pale  ; 

And  ever  since  I've  look'd  on  all 

As  creatures  doom'd  to  fail ! 

Why  do  buds  ope,  except  to  die  ? 

Ay,  let  us  watch  the  roses  wither, 

And  think  of  our  loves'  cheeks  ; 

And  oh  !  how  quickly  time  doth  fly 

To  bring  death's  winter  hither ! 

Minutes,  hours,  days,  and  weeks, 

Months,  years,  and  ages,  shrink  to  naught ; 

An  age  past  is  but  a  thought ! 

Ay,  let  us  think  of  Him  a  while, 

That,  with  a  coffin  for  a  boat, 

Rows  daily  o'er  the  Stygian  moat, 

And  for  our  table  choose  a  tomb : 

There's  dark  enough  in  any  skull 

To  charge  with  black  a  raven  plume ; 

And  for  the  saddest  funeral  thoughts 

A  winding  sheet  hath  ample  room, 

Where  Death,  with  his  keen-pointed  style, 

Hath  writ  the  common  doom. 

How  wide  the  yew  tree  spreads  its  gloom, 

And  o'er  the  dead  lets  fall  its  dew, 

As  if  in  tears  it  wept  for  them, 

The  many  human  families 

That  sleep  around  its  stem ! 

How  could  the  dead  have  made  these  stones, 
With  natural  drops  kept  ever  wet  I 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Lo !  here  the  best,  the  worst,  the  world 
Doth  now  remember  or  forget, 
Are  in  one  common  ruin  hurl'd, 
And  love  and  hate  are  calmly  met ; 
The  loveliest  eyes  that  ever  shone, 
The  fairest  hands,  and  locks  of  jet. 
Is 't  not  enough  to  vex  our  souls, 
And  fill  our  eyes,  that  we  have  set 
Our  love  upon  a  rose's  leaf, 
Our  hearts  upon  a  violet  ? 
Blue  eyes,  red  cheeks,  are  frailer  yet ; 
And  sometimes  at  their  swift  decay 
Beforehand  we  must  fret : 
The  roses  bud  and  bloom  again  ; 
But  love  may  haunt  the  grave  of  love, 
And  watch  the  mould  in  vain. 

O  clasp  me,  sweet,  whilst  thou  art  mine, 
And  do  not  take  my  tears  amiss  ; 
For  tears  must  flow  to  wash  away 
A  thought  that  shows  so  stern  as  this : 
Forgive,  if  somewhile  I  forget, 
In  wo  to  come,  the  present  bliss. 
As  frighted  Proserpine  let  fall 
Her  flowers  at  the  sight  of  Dis, 
Ev'n  so  the  dark  and  bright  will  kiss. 
The  sunniest  things  throw  sternest  shade, 
And  there  is  ev'n  a  happiness 
That  makes  the  heart  afraid  ! 

Now  let  us  with  a  spell  invoke 

The  full-orb'd  moon  to  grieve  our  eyes ; 

Not  bright,-  not  bright,  but,  with  a  cloud 

Lapp'd  all  about  her,  let  her  rise 

All  pale  and  dim,  as  if  from  rest 

The  ghost  of  the  late  buried  sun 

Had  crept  into  the  skies. 

The  Moon  !  she  is  the  source  of  sighs, 


ODE  TO  MELANCHOLY. 

The  very  face  to  make  us  sad  ; 

If  but  to  think  in  other  times 

The  same  calm  quiet  look  she  had, 

As  if  the  world  held  nothing  base, 

Of  vile  and  mean,  of  fierce  and  bad ; 

The  same  fair  light  that  shone  in  streams, 

The  fairy  lamp  that  charm'd  the  lad ; 

For  so  it  is,  with  spent  delights 

She  taunts  men's  brains,  and  makes  them  mad. 

All  things  are  touch'd  with  Melancholy, 
Born  of  the  secret  soul's  mistrust, 
To  feel  her  fair  ethereal  wings 
Weigh'd  down  with  vile  degraded  dust ; 
Even  the  bright  extremes  of  joy 
Bring  on  conclusions  of  disgust, 
Like  the  sweet  blossoms  of  the  May, 
Whose  fragrance  ends  in  must. 
O  give  her,  then,  her  tribute  just, 
Her  sighs  and  tears,  and  musings  holy  . 
There  is  no  music  in  the  life 
That  sounds  with  idiot  laughter  solely  ; 
There's  not  a  string  attuned  to  mirth, 
But  has  its  chords  of  Melancholy. 


THE  END  OF  PART  I. 


PART  SECOND. 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


THE  GREAT  CONFLAGRATION. 


DREADFUL  FIRE — DESTRUCTION  OF  BOTH  HOUSES  OF  PARLIAMENT  THE 

SPEAKER'S  HOUSE  GUTTED  REPORTS  OF  INCENDIARISM. 

It  is  our  unexpected  lot  to  announce  that  the  Houses  of  Lords 
and  Commons,  so  often  threatened  with  combustion,  are  in  a  state 
of  actual  ignition.  At  this  moment,  both  fabrics  are  furiously 
burning.  We  are  writing  this  paragraph  without  the  aid  of  lamp 
or  candles ;  by  the  mere  reflection  of  the  flames.  Nothing  is 
known  of  the  origin  of  the  fire,  although  it  is  throwing  a  light 
upon  everything  else. — Evening  Star. 

The  devouring  element  which  destroyed  Covent  Garden  and 
Drury  Lane,  the  Royalty  and  the  Pantheon,  has  made  its  appear- 
ance on  a  new  stage,  equally  devoted  to  declamatory  elocution. 
St.  Stephen's  Chapel  is  in  flames  !  The  floor  which  was  trodden 
by  the  eloquent  legs  of  a  Fox,  a  Burke,  a  Pitt,  and  a  Sheridan, 
is  reduced  to  a  heap  of  ashes ;  and  the  benches  which  sustained 
the  Demosthenic  weight  of  a  Wyndham,  a  Whitbread,  and  a 
Wilberforce,  are  a  mere  mass  of  charcoal.  The  very  roof  that 
re-echoed  the  classicalities  of  Canning  is  nodding  to  its  fall.  In 
Parliamentary  language,  Fire  is  in  possession  of  the  House  :  the 
Destructive  spirit  is  on  its  legs,  and  the  Conservative  principle 
can  ofFer  but  a  feeble  opposition. — Daily  Post. 

The  blow  is  struck.  What  we  have  long  foreseen  has  come  to 
pass.  Incendiarism  triumphs  !  The  whole  British  Empire,  as 
represented  by  the  three  estates,  is  in  a  blaze  !  The  Throne,  the 
Lords,  and  the  Commons,  are  now  burning.  The  cycle  is  com- 
plete.   The  spirit  of  Guy  Fawkes  revives  in  1834  ! 

Part  ii.  2 


2 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


England  seems  to  have  changed  places  with  Italy  ;  London1 
with  Naples.  We  stand  hourly  on  the  brink  of  a  crater  ;  every 
step  we  take  is  on  a  solfaterra — not.  a  land  of  Sol  Fa,  as  some 
musical  people  would  translate  it ;  but  a  frail  crust,  with  a 
treacherous  subsoil  of  ardent  brimstone  !  At  length  the  eyes  of 
our  rulers  are  opened  ;  but  we  must  ask,  could  nothing  short  of 
such  an  eruption  awaken  them  to  a  sense  of  the  perilous  state 
of  the  country  ?  For  weeks,  nay,  months  past,  at  the  risk  of 
being  considered  alarmists,  we  have  called  the  attention  of  the 
legislature  and  magistracy  to  a  variety  of  suspicious  symptoms 
and  signs  of  the  times,  and  in  particular  to  the  multiplied  chemi- 
cal inventions,  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  instantaneous  lights. 
Well  are  certain  matches  or  fire-boxes  called  Lucifers,  for  they 
may  be  applied  to  the  most  diabolical  purposes !  The  origin  of 
the  fire  cannot  raise  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  in  any  reasonable 
mind.  Accident  is  out  of  the  question.  Tell  us  not  of  tallies. 
We  have  just  tried  our  milk-woman's,  and  it  contained  so  much 
water,  that  nothing  could  make  it  ignite. — Britannic  Guardian. 

The  Houses  of  Parliament  are  in  flames.  We  shall  stop  the 
press  to  give  full  particulars.   Our  reporters  are  at  the  spot,  and 

Mons.  C  ,  the  celebrated  Salamander,  is  engaged  to  give  a 

description  of  the  blazing  interiors,  exclusively  for  this  journal. — 
Daily  Times. 

FROM  A  CORRESPONDENT. 

On  Thursday  evening,  towards  seven  o'clock,  I  was  struck  by 
the  singular  appearance  of  the  moon  silvering  the  opposite  chim- 
neys with  a  blood-red  light,  a  lunar  phenomenon,  which  I  con- 
ceived belonged  only  to  our  theatres.  It  speedily  occurred  to  me 
that  there  must  be  a  conflagration  in  my  vicinity,  and  after  a 
little  hunting  by  scent  as  well  as  sight,  I  found  myself  in  front 
of  the  Houses  of  Lords  and  Commons,  which  were  burning  with 
a  rapidity  and  brilliancy  that  I  make  bold  to  say  did  not  always 
characterize  their  proceedings.  By  favor  of  my  natural  assur- 
ance, which  seemed  to  identify  me  with  the  firemen,  I  was 
allowed  to  pass  through  the  lines  of  guards  and  policemen,  who 
surrounded  the  blazing  pile,  and  was  thus  enabled  to  select  a 


THE  GREAT  CONFLAGRATION. 


3 


favorable  position  for  overlooking  the  whole  scene.  It  was  an 
imposing  sight.  The  flames  rose  from  the  Peers'  in  a  volume, 
as  red  as  the  Extraordinary  Red  Book,  and  the  House  of  Com- 
mons was  not  at  all  behind-hand  in  voting  supplies  of  timber  and 
other  combustibles.  Westminster  Hall  reminded  me  vividly  of  a 
London  cry,  "  Hall  hot,  flail  hot,"  that  was  familiar  in  our  child- 
hood— and  the  Gothic  architecture  of  the  Abbey  seemed  unusu- 
ally jlorid.  Instead  of  dingy  stone,  the  venerable  pile  appeared 
to  be  built  of  the  well-baked  brick  of  the  Elizabethan  age. 
Indeed,  so  red-hot  was  its  aspect,  that  it  led  to  a  ludicrous  mis- 
apprehension on  the  part  of  the  populace.  A  procession,  bearing 
several  male  and  female  figures  in  a  state  of  insensibility,  natu- 
rally gave  rise  to  the  most  painful  conjectures,  inferring  loss  of 
human  life  by  the  devouring  element,  but  I  have  reason  to  believe 
it  was  only  the  Dean  and  Chapter  saving  the  Wax-Work.  As 
far  as  my  own  observation  went,  the  first  object  carried  out  cer- 
tainly bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  General  Monk. 

In  the  mean  time  a  select  party  had  effected  an  entrance  into 
the  Hall,  but  not  without  some  serious  delay,  occasioned,  I 
believe,  by  somebody  within  bringing  the  wrong  key,  that 
belonged  to  a  tea-caddy.  However,  at  last  they  entered,  and  I 
followed  their  example.  The  first  person  I  beheld  was  the  vete- 
ran Higginbottom,  so  unfairly,  but  facetiously,  put  to  death  by 
the  authors  of  the  Rejected  Addresses  ;  for  no  man  is  more  alive 
to  his  duty.  But  he  was  sadly  hampered.  First  came  one  Hon. 
Gent,  said  to  be  Mr.  Morrison,  and  insisted  on  directing  the  Hose 
department ;  and  next  arrived  a  noble  Lord  from  Crockford's, 
who  wouldn't  sit  out,  but  persisted  in  taking  a  hand,  and  play- 
ing, though  everybody  agreed  that  he  played  too  high.  I  men- 
tion this,  because  some  of  the  journals  have  imputed  mismanage- 
ment to  the  engines,  and  have  insinuated  that  the  pipes  wanted 
organizing  ;  indeed,  I  myself  overheard  a  noble  director  of  the 
Academy  of  Music  lamenting  that  the  firemen  did  not  "  play  in 
concert." 

The  same  remark  applies  with  greater  force  to  the  House  of 
Commons.  Here  all  was  confusion  worse  confounded,  and  Hig- 
ginbottom's  station  was  enviable,  compared  with  that  of  some  of 
the  poor  fellows  in  St.  Stephen's  Chapel.    A  considerable  num.. 


4 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


ber  of  members  had  arrived,  and  without  any  attention  to  their 
usual  parliamentary  rules,  were  all  making  motions  at  once, 
which  nobody  seconded.  The  most  prominent,  I  was  informed, 
were  Mr.  Hume,  Mr.  O'Connell,  Mr.  Attwood,  Mr.  Bucking- 
ham, Mr.  Pease,  Sir  Andrew  and  Mr.  Buxton — the  latter  almost 
covered  with  blacks.  The  clamor  was  terrific,  and  I  really 
expected  that  the  poor  foremen  who  held  the  pipes  would  be  torn 
in  pieces.  Everybody  wanted  to  command  the  Coldstream. 
Nothing  but  shouts  of  "  Here  !  here  !  here  !"  answered  like  an 
Irish  echo  by  cries  of  "  There  !  there!  there  !"  "  Oh,  save  my 
savings  !" — "  My  poor,  poor  Bill !"  "  More  water—  more  water 
for  my  Drunkenness  !"  "  Work  awa,  lads,  work  awa — it's  no 
the  Sabbath,  and  ye  may  just  play  at  what  ye  like  !" 

In  pleasing  contrast  to  this  tumult,  was  the  unusual  and  cor- 
dial unanimity  of  the  members  of  both  Houses,  in  rescuing  what- 
ever was  portable  from  the  flames.  It  was  a  delightful  novelty 
to  see  the  Lords  helping  the  Commons  in  whatever  they  moved 
or  carried.  No  party  spirit — no  Whig,  pulling  at  one  leg  of  the 
table,  whilst  a  Tory  tugged  at  another  in  the  opposite  direction. 
They  seemed  to  belong  to  the  Hand-in-Hand.  Peers  and  Com- 
moners were  alike  seen  burthened  with  loads  of  papers  or  furni- 
ture. Mr.  Calvert,  in  particular,  worked  like  any  porter.  Of 
course,  in  rescuing  the  papers  and  parchments,  there  was  no  time 
for  inspecting  their  contents,  and  some  curious  results  were  the 
consequence.  Everybody  remembers  the  pathetic  story  in  the 
Tatler,  of  the  lover  who  saved  a  strange  lady  from  a  burning 
theatre,  under  the  idea  that  he  was  preserving  the  mistress  of  his 
affections,  and  some  similar  mistakes  are  currently  reported  to 
have  occurred  at  the  late  conflagration — and  equally  to  the 
chagrin  of  the  parties.  I  go  by  hearsay,  and  cannot  vouch  for 
the  facts,  but  it  is  said  that  the  unpopular  Six  Acts,  including 
what  I  believe  is  called  the  Gagging  Act,  were  actually  preserved 
by  Mr.  Cobbett.  Mr.  O'Connell  saved  the  Irish  Coercion  Bill, 
whilst  the  Reform  Bill  was  snatched  like  "  a  brand  out  of  the 
fire,"  by  a  certain  noble  Duke,  who  resolutely  set  his  face  against 
it  in  all  its  stages !  Amongst  others,  Mr.  Ricardo  saved  an  old 
tattered  flag,  which  he  thought  was  "the  standard  of  value." 

However  deficient  in  general  combination,  and  concentration 


THE  GREAT  CONFLAGRATION. 


of  energies,  individual  efforts  were  beyond  all  praise.  The 
instances  of  personal  exertion  and  daring  were  numerous.  Mr. 
Rice  worked  amidst  the  flames  till  he  was  nearly  baked  ;  and 
everybody  expected  that  Mr.  Pease  would  be  parched.  The 
greatest  .danger  was  from  the  melted  metal  pouring  down  from 
the  windows  and  roof.  The  heads  of  some  of  the  Hon.  Gentle- 
men were  literally  nothing  but  lead.  Great  apprehensions  were 
entertained  of  the  falling  in  of  one  of  the  walls,  which  eventually 
gave  way,  but  fortunately  everybody  had  retreated  on  the  timely 
warning  of  a  gentleman,  Mr.  O'Connell  I  believe,  who  declared 
that  he  saw  a  Rent  in  it. 

I  did  not  enter  the  House  of  Lords,  which  was  now  one  mass 
of  glowing  fire,  but  directed  my  attention  towards  the  Speaker's 
mansion,  which  was  partially  burning.  The  garden  behind  was 
nearly  filled  with  miscellaneous  property — and  numbers  of  well- 
dressed  gentlemen  were  every  moment  rushing  into  the  house, 
from  which  they  issued  again,  laden  with  spits,  saucepans,  and 
other  culinary  implements.  I,  myself,  saw  one  zealous  individual 
thus  encumbered — with  a  stew-pan  on  his  head,  the  meat-screen 
under  one  arm,  the  dripping-pan  under  the  other,  the  frying-pan 
in  his  right  hand,  the  gridiron  in  his  left,  and  the  rolling-pin  in 
his  mouth.  Indeed,  it  is  said  that  every  article  in  the  kitchen 
was  saved  down  to  the  salt-box  ;  and  the  cook  declares  that  such 
was  the  anxiety  to  save  her  she  was  "  cotched  up  in  twelve  gen- 
tlemen's arms,  and  never  felt  her  feet  till  the  corner  of  Abingdon 
Street." 

The  whole  of  the  Foot  Guards  were  in  attendance,  as  well  as 
a  great  number  of  the  police,  but  the  thieves  had  mustered  in 
great  force,  and  there  was  a  good  deal  of  plundering,  which  was 
however  checked  temporarily  by  a  gentleman  said  to  be  one  of 
the  members  and  magistrates  for  Essex,  who  jumped  up  on  a 
railing  and  addressed  the  populace  to  the  following  effect,  "  How 
do  you  hall  dare  !" 

The  origin  of  the  fire  is  involved  in  much  mystery  ;  nor  is  it 
correctly  ascertained  by  whom  it  was  first  discovered.  Some 
say  that  one  of  the  Serjeants,  in  taking  up  the  insignia,  was 
astonished  to  find  the  mace  as  hot  as  ginger.  Others  relate 
that  a  Mr.  Spell,  or  Shell,  or  Snell,  whilst  viewing  the  House, 


8 


PROSE.  AND  VERSE. 


although  no  dancer,  began  suddenly,  and  in  his  boots,  to  the 
utter  amazement  of  his  companions  and  Mrs.  Wright,  the  house- 
keeper, to  jump  and  caper  like  a  bear  upon  a  hotted  floor.  This 
story  certainly  seems  to  countenance  a  report  that  the  mischief 
originated  in  the  warming  apparatus,  an  opinion  that  is  very 
current,  but,  for  my  own  part,  I  cannot  conceive  that  the  Col- 
lective Wisdom,  which  knows  how  to  lay  down  laws  for  us  all. 
should  not  know  how  to  lay  down  flues.  Rumors  of  Incendia- 
rism are  also  very  generally  prevalent,  and  stories  are  in  circu- 
lation of  the  finding  of  half-burnt  matches  and  other  cembusti- 
bles.  But  these  facts  rest  on  very  frail  foundations.  The  links 
said  to  have  been  found  in  the  Speaker's  garden  have  turned 
out  to  be  nothing  but  German  sausages  ;  and  another  cock-and- 
a-bull  that  has  got  abroad  will  probably  come  to  no  better  end. 
A  Mr.  Dudley  affirms  that  he  smelt  the  fire  before  it  broke  out, 
at  Cooper's  Hill  ;  but  such  olfactories  are  too  much  like  manu- 
factories to  be  believed. 

I  am,  Sir,  your  most  obedient  servant, 

X.  Y.  Z. 


ANOTHER  ACCOUNT. 

The  writer  of  these  lines,  who  resides  in  Lambeth,  was  first 
awakened  to  a  sense  of  conflagration  by  a  cry  of  "  Fire  "  from  a 
number  of  persons  who  were  running  in  the  direction  of  West- 
minster Bridge.  Owning  myself  a  warm  enthusiast  on  the  sub- 
ject of  ignition,  and  indeed  not  having  missed  a  fire  for  the  last 
fifty  years,  except  one,  and  that  was  only  a  chimney,  it  may  be 
supposed  the  exclamation  in  question  Bad  an  electric  effect. 
We  are  all  the  slaves  of  some  physical  bias,  strange  as  it  may 
appear  to  others  with  opposite  tendencies.  It  is  recorded  of  some 
great  marshal  that  he  disliked  music,  but  testified  the  liveliest 
pleasure  at  a  salvo  of  artillery  or  a  roll  of  thunder,  and  the 
rumble  of  an  engine  has  the  same  effect  on  the  author  of  these 
lines.  To  say  I  am  a  guebre,  or  fire-worshipper,  is  only  to 
confess  the  truth.    I  have  a  sort  of  observatory  erected  on  the 


THE  GREAT  CONFLAGRATION. 


7 


roof  of  my  house,  from  which,  if  there  be  a  break-out  within  the 
circuit  of  the  metropolis,  it  may  be  discovered,  and  before  going 
to  bed  1  invariably  visit  this  look-out. 

Every  man  has  his  hobby-horse,  and,  figuratively  speaking, 
mine  was  always  kept  harnessed  and  ready  to  run  to  a  fire  with 
the  first  engine.  Many  a  time  I  have  arrived  before  the  turn- 
cocks, though  I  perhaps  had  to  traverse  half  London,  and  I 
scarcely  remember  an  instance  that  I  did  not  appear  long  be- 
fore the  water.  Habit  is  second  nature — I  verily  believe  I 
could  sniff  a  conflagration  by  instinct ;  and  if  I  was  not,  I  ought 
to  have  been,  the  trainer  of  the  firemen's  dog,  which  at  present 
attracts  so  much  of  the  public  attention,  by  his  eager  running 
along  with  the  Sun,  the  Globe,  the  British  and  the  Hand-in- 
Hand. 

Of  course  I  have  seen  a  great  many  fires  in  my  time — Ro- 
therhithe.  the  theatres,  the  Custom-house,  &c,  &c.  I  remember 
in  the  days  of  Thistle  wood  and  Co.,  when  the  metropolis  was 
expected  to  be  set  on  fire,  I  slept  for  three  weeks  in  my  clothes 
in  order  to  be  ready  for  the  first  alarm  ;  for  I  had  the  good  for- 
tune to  witness  the  great  riots  of  1780,  when  no  less  than  eight 
fires  were  blazing  at  once,  and  a  lamentable  sight  it  was.  I 
say  lamentable,  because  it  was  impossible  to  be  present  at  them 
all  at  the  same  time ;  but  my  good  genius  directed  me  to  Lang- 
dale's  the  Distiller,  which  made  (excuse  the  vulgar  popular 
phrase)  a  very  satisfactory  flare-up. 

The  Rotherhithe  fire,  not  the  recent  little  job,  but  some  fifteen 
or  twenty  years  ago,  was  also  on  a  grand  scale,  and  very  last- 
ing. The  engine-pipes  were  wilfully  cut ;  and  I  remember 
some  of  my  friends  rallying  me  on  my  well-known  propensity, 
jocularly  accusing  me  of  lending  my  knife  and  my  assistance. 
The  Custom-house  was  a  disappointment ;  it  certainly  cleared 
itself  effectually,  but  it  was  done  by  day-light,  and^consequently 
the  long-room  fell  short  of  my  anticipations.  Drury-lane  and 
Covent-garden  were  better ;  but  I  have  observed  generally  that 
theatres  burn  with  more  attention  to  stage  effect.  They  avoid 
the  noon  :  a  dark  night  to  a  fire  is  like  the  black  letters  in  a 
benefit-bill,  setting  off  the  red  ones. 

The  destruction  of  the  Kent  Indiaman  I  should  like  to  have 


& 


I'iiOSE  AND  VERSE. 


witnessed,  but  contrary  to  the  opinion  of  many  experienced  ama- 
teurs I  conceive  the  Dartford  Mills  must  have  been  a  failure. 
Powder  magazines  make  very  indifferent  conflagrations ;  they 
are  no  sooner  on  fire  than  they  are  off, — all  is  over  before  you 
know  where  you  are,  and  there  is  no  getting  under,  which  quite 
puts  you  out.  But  fires,  generally,  are  not  what  they  used  to 
be.  What  with  gas,  and  new  police,  steam,  and  one  cause  or 
other,  they  have  become  what  one  might  call  slow  explosions. 
A  body  of  flame  bursts  from  all  the  windows  at  once,  and  be- 
fore B  25  can  call  fi-er  in  two  syllables,  the  roof  falls  in,  and 
all  is  over.  It  was  not  so  in  my  time.  First  a  little  smoke 
would  issue  from  a  window-shutter,  like  the  puff  of  a  cigar, 
and  after  a  long  spring  of  his  rattle,  the  rheumatic  watchman 
had  time  to  knock  double  and  treble  knocks,  from  No.  9  to  No. 
35,  before  a  spark  made  its  appearance  out  of  the  chimney-pot. 
The  Volunteers  had  time  to  assemble  under  arms,  and  muffle 
their  drums,  and  the  bell-ringers  to  collect  in  the  belfry,  and 
pull  an  alarm  peal  backwards.  The  parish  engines  even,  al- 
though pulled  along  by  the  pursy  churchwardens,  and  the  para- 
lytic paupers,  contrived  to  arrive  before  the  fire  fairly  broke  out 
in  the  shape  of  a  little  squib-like  eruption  from  the  garret-win- 
dow. The  affrighted  family,  fourteen  in  number  ,  all  elaborately 
drest  in  their  best  Sunday  clothes,  saved  themselves  by  the 
street-door,  according  to  seniority,  the  furniture  was  carefully 
removed,  and  after  an  hour's  pumping,  the  fire  was  extinguished 
without  extending  beyond  the  room  where  it  originated,  namely 
a  bedroom  on  the  second  floor.  Such  was  the  progress  in  my 
time  of  a  fire,  but  it  is  the  fashion  now  to  sacrifice  everything  to 
pace.  Look  at  our  race-horses,  and  look  at  our  fox-hounds, — 
and  I  will  add  look  at  our  conflagrations.  All  that  is  cared  for 
is  a  burst — no  matter  how  short,  if  it  be  but  rapid.  The  de- 
vouring element  never  sits  down  now  to  a  regular  meal — it 
pitches  on  a  house  and  holts  it. 

But  I  am  wandering  from  the  point.  The  announcement  of 
both  Houses  of  Parliament  being  in  flames  thrilled  through  every 
fibre.  It  seemed  to  promise  what  I  may  call  a  crowning  event 
to  the  Conflagrationary  Reminiscences  of  an  Octogenarian.  I 
snatched  up  my  hat,  and  rushed  into  the  street,  at  eighty  years 


0 


THE  GREAT  CONFLAGRATION.  9 

of  age,  with  the  alacrity  of  eighteen,  when  I  ran  from  Highgate 
to  Horsleydown,  to  be  present  at  the  gutting  of  a  ship  chan- 
dler's.   As  the  bard  says — 

"  Ev'n  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires" 

and  I  could  almost  have  supposed  myself  a  fireman  belonging 
to  the  Phoenix.  My  first  step  into  the  street  discouraged  me, 
the  moonlight  was  so  brilliant,  and  in  such  cases  the  most  splen- 
did blaze  is  somewhat  "shorn  of  its  beams."  But  a  few  steps 
re-assured  me.  Even  at  the  Surrey  side  of  the  river  the  sparks 
and  burning  particles  were  falling  like  flakes  of  snow — I  mean 
of  course  the  red  snow  formerly  discovered  by  Captain  Ross,  and 
the  light  was  so  great  that  I  could  have  read  the  small  print 
of  the  Police  Gazette  with  the  greatest  ease,  only  I  don't  take  it 
in.  I  of  course  made  the  best  of  my  way  towards  the  scene, 
but  the  crowd  was  already  so  dense  that  I  could  only  attain  a 
situation  on  the  strand  opposite  Cotton  Gardens,  up  to  my  knees 
in  mud.  Both  Houses  of  Parliament  were  at  this  time  in  a  blaze, 
and  no  doubt  presented  as  striking  objects  of  conflagration  as 
the  metropolis  could  offer.  I  say,  "  no  doubt," — for  getting 
jammed  against  a  barge  with  my  back  towards  the  fire,  I  am 
unable  to  state  anything  on  my  own  authority  as  an  eye-witness, 
excepting  that  the  buildings  on  the  Surrey  side  exhibited  a  glow- 
ing reflection  for  some  hours.  At  last  the  flowing  of  the  tide 
caused  the  multitude  to  retreat,  and  releasing  me  from  my  re- 
trospective position  allowed  me  to  gaze  upon  the  ruins.  By 
what  I  hear,  it  was  a  most  imposing  sight — but  in  spite  of  my 
Lord  Althorp,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  Westminster  Hall, 
with  its  long  range,  would  have  made  up  an  admirable  fire. 
Neither  can  I  agree  with  the  many  that  it  was  an  Incendiary 
Act,  that  passed  through  both  houses  so  rapidly.  To  enjoy  the 
thing,  a  later  hour  and  a  darker  night  would  certainly  have  been 
chosen.  Fire-light  and  moon-light  do  not  mix  well : — they  are 
best  neat.  I  am,  Sir,  Yours,  &c, 

Senex. 


10 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


VARIOUS  ACCOUNTS. 

We  are  concerned  to  state  that  Sir  Jacob  Jubb  the  new  mem- 
ber for  Shrops  was  severely  burnt,  by  taking  his  seat  in  the 
House,  on  a  bench  that  was  burning  under  him.  The  danger 
of  his  situation  was  several  times  pointed  out  to  him,  but  he  re- 
plied that  his  seat  had  cost  him  ten  thousand  pounds,  and  he 
wouldn't  quit.  He  was  at  length  removed  by  force. — Morning 
Ledger. 

A  great  many  foolish  anecdotes  of  the  fire  are  in  circulation. 
One  of  our  contemporaries  gravely  asserts  that  the  Marquis  of 
Culpepper  was  the  last  person  who  left  the  South  Turret,  a 
fact  we  beg  leave  to  question,  for  the  exquisite  reason  that  the 
noble  Lord  alluded  to  is  at  present  at  Constantinople. — The  Real 
Sun. 

We  are  enabled  to  state  that  the  individual  who  displayed  so 
much  coolness  in  the  South  Turret  was  Captain  Back. — The 
Public  Journal. 

It  is  said  that  considerable  interest  was  evinced  by  the  mem- 
bers of  the  House  of  Commons  who  were  present  at  the  fire,  as 
to  the  fate  of  their  respective  Bills.  One  honorable  gentleman, 
in  particular,  was  observed  anxiously  watching  the  last  scintil- 
lations of  some  burnt  paper.  "  Oh,  my  Sabbath  Observance  !" 
he  exclaimed,  "  There 's  an  end  of  religion  !  There  go  the 
Parson  and  Clerk  !" — Public  Diary. 

The  Earl  of  M.  had  a  very  narrow  escape.  His  Lordship 
was  on  the  point  of  kicking  a  bucket  when  a  laborer  rushed 
forward  and  snatched  it  out  of  the  way.  The  individual's  name 
is  M'Farrel.  We  understand  he  is  a  sober,  honest,  hard-work- 
ing man,  and  has  two  wives,  and  a  numerous  family  ;  the  eldest 
not  above  a  year  old. — Daily  Chronicle. 

The  exclamation  of  a  noble  Lord,  high  in  office,  who  was 
very  active  at  the  fire,  has  been  very  incorrectly  given.  The 
words  were  as  follows : — "  Blow  the  Commons  !  let  'em  flare  up 
— but  oh, — for  a  save-all !  a  save-all." — Morning  News. 

The  public  attention  has  been  greatly  excited  by  the  extraor- 
dinary statement  of  a  commercial  gentleman,  that  he  smelt  the 
fire  at  the  Cock  and  Bottle,  in  Coventry.    He  asserts  that  he 


THE  GREAT  CONFLAGRATION. 


mentioned  the  fact  in  the  commercial  room  to  a  deaf  gentleman, 
and  likewise  to  a  dumb  waiter,  but  neither  have  any  recollection 
of  the  circumstance.  He  has  been  examined  before  the  Common 
Council,  who  have  elicited  that  he  actually  arrived  at  Coventry 
on  the  night  in  question,  by  the  Tally-ho  !  and  the  near  leader  of 
that  coach  has  been  sent  for  by  express. — New  Monitor. 

We  were  in  error  in  stating  that  the  Atlas  was  the  first  engine 
at  the  scene  of  action.  So  early  as  five  o'clock  Mr.  Alderman 
A  arrived  with  his  own  garden  engine,  and  began  immediately 
to  play  upon  the  Thames. — British  Guardian. 

It  must  have  struck  every  one  who  witnessed  the  operations 
in  the  House  of  Commons,  that  there  was  a  lamentable  want  of 
"order!  order!  order!"  A  great  many  gentlemen  succeeded 
in  making  pumps  of  themselves,  without  producing  any  check  on 
the  flames.  The  conduct  of  the  military  also  was  far  from 
unexceptionable.  On  the  arrival  of  the  Coldstream  at  the  fire, 
they  actually  refused  to  fall  in.  Many  declined  to  stand  at  ease 
on  the  burning  rafters — but  what  is  the  public  interest  to  a  pri- 
vate ? — Public  Advertiser. 


MONSIEUR  C.'S  ACCOUNT.  (EXCLUSIVE.) 

When  lam  come  first  to  the  fire,  it  was  not  long  burnt  up  ;  and 
I  was  oblige  to  walk  up  and  down  the  floor  to  keep  myself  warm. 
At  last,  i  take  my  seat  on  the  stove  quite  convenient  to  look  about. 
In  the  House  of  Commons  there  was  nobody,  and  I  am  all  alone. 
The  first  thing  I  observe  was  a  great  many  rats,  ratting  about — 
but  they  did  not  know  which  way  to  turn.  So  they  were  all 
burnt  dead.  The  flames  grew  very  fast:  and  I  am  interested 
very  much  with  the  seats,  how  they  burned,  quite  different  from 
one  another.  Some  seats  made  what  you  call  a  great  splutter, 
and  popped  and  bounced,  and  some  other  seats  made  no  noise  at 
all.  Mr.  Bulwer's  place  burned  of  a  blue  color ;  Mr.  Buck- 
stone's  turned  quite  black ;  and  there  was  one  made  a  flame  the 
color  of  a  drab.  I  observe  one  green  flame  and  one  orange,  side 
by  side,  and  they  hiss  and  roar  at  one  another  very  furious. 


12 


PROSE  AND  VERS£. 


The  gallery  cleared  itself  quite  quickly,  and  the  seat  of  Mes- 
sieurs the  reporters  exploded  itself  like  a  cannon  of  forty-eight 
pounds.    The  speaking  chair  burnt  without  any  sound  at  all. 

When  everything  is  quite  done  in  the  Commons  I  leave  them 
off,  ahd  go  to  the  House  of  Lords,  where  the  fire  was  all  in  one 
sheet,  and  almost  the  whole  of  its  inside  burnt  out.  I  was  able 
in  this  room  to  take  off  my  greatcoat.  I  could  find  nothing  to 
be  saved  except  one  great  ink-stand  that  was  red  hot,  and  which 
I  carry  away  in  my  two  hands.  Likewise  here,  as  well  as  in 
the  Commons,  I  bottled  up  several  bottles  of  smoke,  to  distribute 
afterwards,  at  five  guineas  a  piece,  and  may  be  more ;  for  I 
know  the  English  people  admire  such  things,  and  are  fond  after 
reliques,  like  a  madness  almost.  I  did  not  make  a  long  stop7 
for  whenever  I  was  visible,  the  pompiers  was  so  foolish  as  play 
water  upon  me,  and  I  was  afraid  of  a  catch-cold.  In  fact,  when 
I  arrive  at  home,  I  find  myself  stuffed  in  my  head,  and  fast  in 
my  chest,  and  my  throat  was  a  little  horse.  I  am  going  for  it 
into  a  bath  of  boiling  water,  and  cannot  write  any  more  at  full 
length. 


A  LETTER  TO  A  LABORING  MAN. 

BUSHELL, 

When  you  made  a  holiday  last  Whitsuntide  to  see  the 
Sights  of  London,  in  your  way  to  the  Waxwork  and  Westmin- 
ster Abbey,  you  probably  noticed  a  vast  pile  of  buildings  in 
Palace  Yard,  ard  you  stood  and  scratched  that  shock  head  of 
yours,  and  wondered  whose  fine  houses  they  were.  Seeing  you 
to  be  a  country  clodpole,  no  doubt  some  well-dressed  vagabond, 
by  way  of  putting  a  hoax  upon  the  hawbuck,  told  you  that  in 
those  buildings  congregated  all  the  talent,  all  the  integrity  and 
public  spirit  of  the  country — that  beneath  those  roofs  the  best  and 
wisest,  and  the  most  honest  men  to  be  found  in  three  kingdoms, 
met  to  deliberate  and  enact  the  most  wholesome  and  just  and 
judicious  laws  for  the  good  of  the  nation.  He  called  them  the 
oracles  of  our  constitution,  the  guardians  of  our  rights,  and  the 


THE  GREAT  CONFLAGRATION. 


13 


assertors  of  our  liberties.  Of  course,  Bushell,  you  were  told  all 
this ;  but  nobody  told  you,  I  dare  say,  that  within  those  walls 
your  master  had  lifted  up  his  voice,  and  delivered  the  only  sound, 
rational,  and  wholesome,  upright,  and  able  speeches,  that  were 
ever  uttered  in  St.  Stephen's  Chapel.  No,  nobody  told  you  that. 
But  when  I  come  dome,  Bushell,  I  will  lend  you  all  my  printed 
speeches,  and  when  you  have  spelt  them,  and  read  them,  and 
studied  them,  and  got  them  by  heart,  bumpkin  as  you  are, 
Bushell,  you  will  know  as  much  of  legislation  as  all  our  precious 
members  together. 

Well,  Bushell,  the  fine  houses  you  stood  gaping  at  are  burnt 
lown,  gutted,  as  the  vulgar  call  it,  and  nothing  is  left  bu.  the 
□are  walls.  You  saw  Farmer  Gubbins'  house,  or,  at  least,  the 
shell  of  it,  after  the  fire  there ;  well,  the  Parliament  Houses  are 
exactly  in  the  same  state.  There  is  news  for  you !  and  now 
Bushell,  how  do  you  feel  ?  Why,  if  the  well-dressed  vagabond 
told  you  the  truth,  you  feel  as  if  you  had  had  a  stroke — for  all 
the  British  Constitution  is  affected,  and  you  are  a  fraction  of  it, 
that  is  to  say,  a  British  subject.  Your  bacon  grows  rusty  in  your 
mouth,  and  your  table-beer  turns  to  vinegar  on  your  palate. 
You  cannot  sleep  at  night,  or  work  by  day.  You  have  no  heart 
for  anything.  You  can  hardly  drag  one  clouted  shoe  after 
another.  And  how  do  you  look  ?  Why,  as  pale  as  a  parsnip, 
and  as  thin  as  a  hurdle,  and  your  carrotty  locks  stand  bolt  up- 
right, as  if  you  had  just  met  old  Lawson's  ghost  with  his  head 
under  his  arm.  I  say  thus  you  must  feel  and  look,  Bushell,  if 
what  the  well-dressed  vagabond  told  you  is  the  truth.  But  is 
that  the  case  ?  No.  You  drink  your  small  beer  with  a  sigh 
and  smack  of  delight ;  and  you  bolt  your  bacon  with  a  relish,  as 
if,  as  the  virtuous  Americans  say,  you  could  "  go  the  whole  hog." 
Your  clouted  shoes  clatter  a"bout  as  if  you  were  counting  hob- 
nails with  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  you  work  like  a  young  horse,  or 
an  old  ass,  and  at  night  you  snore  like  an  oratorio  of  jews'  harps. 
Your  face  is  as  bold  and  ruddy  as  the  Red  Lion's.  Your  car- 
rotty locks  lie  sleek  upon  your  poll,  and  as  for  poor  old  Lawson's 
ghost,  you  could  lend  him  flesh  and  blood  enough  to  set  him  up 
again  in  life.  But  what,  say  you,  does  all  this  tend  to  ?  I  will 
tell  you,  Bushell.    There  are  a  great  many  well-dressed  vaga- 


L4 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


bonds,  besides  the  one  you  met  in  Palace  Yard,  who  would  per- 
suade a  poor  man  that  a  House  of  Lords  or  Commons  is  as  gooa 
to  him  as  his  bread,  beer,  beef,  bacon,  bed,  and  breeches ;  and 
therefore  I  address  this  to  you,  Bushell,  to  set  such  notions  to 
rights  by  an  appeal  to  your  own  back  and  belly.  And  now  I 
will  tell  you  what  you  shall  do.  You  shall  go  three  nights  a 
w  eek  to  the  Red  Lion  (when  your  work  is  done),  and  you  may 
score  by  a  pint  of  beer,  at  my  cost,  each  time.  And  when  the 
parson,  or  the  exciseman,  or  the  tax-gatherer,  or  any  such  gen- 
try, begin  to  talk  of  the  deplorable  great  burning,  and  the 
national  calamity,  and  such-like  trash,  you  shall  pull  out  my 
letter  and  read  to  them — I  say,  Bushell,  you  shall  read  this  letter 
to  them,  twice  over,  loudly  and  distinctly,  and  tell  them  from  me, 
that  the  burning  of  twenty  Parliament  Houses  wouldn't  be  such 
a  national  calamity  as  a  fire  at  No.  1,  Bolt  Court. 


PRIVATE  CORRESPONDENCE. 

To  Mary  Price,  Fenny  Hall,  Lincolnshire. 

O  Mary, — I  am  writing  in  such  a  quiver,  with  my  art  in  my 
mouth,  and  my  tung  sticking  to  it.  For  too  hole  hours  I've  bean 
Doin  nothink  but  taking  on  and  going  off,  I  mean  into  fits,  or  cry- 
ing and  blessing  goodness  for  my  miraclus  escape.  This  day 
week  I  wear  inwallopped  in  flams,  and  thinkin  of  roth  to  cum, 
and  fire  evverlasting.  But  thenks  to  Diving  Providings,  hear  1 
am,  althowgh  with  loss  of  wan  high  brew  scotched  off,  a  noo  cap 
and  my  rite  shew.  But  I  hav  bean  terrifid  to  deth.  Wen  I  was 
ate,  or  it  might  be  nine,  I  fell  on  the  stow,  and  hav  had  a  grate 
dred  of  fire  ewer  since.  Gudge  then  how  low  I  felt  at  the  idear 
of  burning  along  with  the  Lords  and  Communer's.  It  as  bean  a 
Warnin,  and  never,  no  never  never  never  agin  will  I  go  to  Clan- 
destiny  parties  behind  Missisis  backs.  I  now  see  my  errer,  but 
temtashun  prevaled,  tho  the  clovin  fut  of  the  Wicked  Wan  had  a 
hand  in  it  all :  Oh  Mary,  down  on  yure  marrybones,  and  bless 
yure  stars  for  sitiating  you  in  a  loanly  stooped  poky  place,  wear 


THE  GREAT  CONFLAGRATION. 


15 


you  can't  be  lead  into  liteness  and  gayty,  if  you  was  ever  so 
inclind.  Fore  wipping  willies  and  a  windmill  is  a  dullish  luck 
out,  shure  enuff,  but  its  better  then  moor  ambishus  prospex,  and 
stairing  at  a  grate  fire,  like  a  suckin  pig,  till  yure  eyes  is  reddy 
to  drop  out  of  yure  hed  ! 

You  no  wen  Lady  Manners  is  absent,  a  certin  person  always 
gives  a  good  rowt : — and  I  had  a  card  in  Coarse.  I  went  very 
ginteel,  my  Cloke  cost  I  wont  say  Wot,  and  a  hat  and  fethers  to 
match.  But  it  warnt  to  be.  After  takin  off  my  things,  I  had 
barely  .set  down,  wen  at  the  front  dore  there  cums  a  dubble  nock 
without  any  end  to  it,  and  a  ring  of  the  bell  at  the  saim  time,  like 
a  triangle  keepin  cumpany  with  a  big  drum.  As  soon  as  the  door 
were  opened,  a  man  with  a  pail  face  asked  for  the  buckits,  and  that 
was  the  fust  news  we  had  of  the  fire.  Oh  Mary,  never  trust  to  the 
mail  sects !  They  are  all  Alick  from  the  Botcher  and  Backer 
that  flurts  at  the  front  dore,  down  to  the  deer  dissevers  you  throw 
away  yure  arts  upon.  For  all  their  fine  purfessions,  they  are  only 
filling  yure  ears  with  picrust,  they  make  trifles  of  yure  afections, 
and  destroy  your  comfits  for  life.  They  think  no  more  of  perjur- 
ing themselves  then  I  do  of  sweeping  the  earth.  If  yure  wise  you 
will  sit  yure  face  agin  all  menkind  and  luv  nonsense,  as  I  meen  to 
in  futer,  or  may  be,  wen  you  are  dreeming  of  brid  cake  and  wite 
fevers,  you  may  find  yureself  left  with  nothink  but  breeches  of 
prommis.  John  Futman  is  a  proof  in  pint.  Menny  tims  Ive  give 
him  a  hiding  at  number  fore,  and  he  always  had  the  best  of 
the  lardur  at  our  stolin  meatings,  and  God  nose  Ive  offun  alloud 
him  to  idelize  me  when  I  ort  to  have  bean  at  my  wurks,  besides 
larning  to  rite  for  his  sack.  Twenty  housis  afire  ort  not  to  have 
a  baited  his  warmth,  insted  of  witch  to  jump  up  at  the  first  allurm 
and  run  away,  leaving  me  to  make  my  hone  shifts.  A  treu  luver 
wood  have  staid  to  shear  my  fat.  O  Mary,  if  ever  there  was  a 
terryfickle  spectikle  that  was  won  !  Flams  before  and  flams 
behind,  and  flams  over-head.  Sich  axing  and  hollowing  out,  and 
mobbing  and  pumpin,  and  cussing  and  swaring,  and  the  peple's 
rushes  into  the  Hous  purvented  all  gitting  out.  For  my  hone 
parts,  I  climed  up  the  dresser,  and  skreeked,  but  nobbody  was 
man  enufT  to  purtect.  Men  ant  what  they  was.  I  am  sick  of 
the  retches  !    It  used  to  be  femails  fust,  but  now  its  furniter,  I 


16 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


fully  thort  one  gintleman  was  comin  to  cotch  me  up  in  arms,  bul 
he  preferred  the  fish  kettle.  As  for  the  sogers  they  march*  off 
to  the  wind  seller,  and  the  pantry,  ware  they  maid  beleave  to 
preserve  the  gusberry  gam.  How  I  was  reskewd  at  last  Lord 
nose,  for  my  hed  was  unsensible  tell  I  found  meself  setten  on  the 
pickid  pinted  ralings  of  St.  Margaret's  Church,  with  my  fethers 
all  frizzild,  and  a  shew  off.  But  cf  all  iossis,  my  ridicule  was 
most  serius,  for  it  had  my  puss  in  it. 

How  and  ware  it  broke  out  is  a  mistery.  Sum  say  both 
Howses  was  unuer  minded.  Sum  say  the  Common  members 
got  over  heatid  in  their  fluency.  A  grate  deal  of  property  was 
burned,  in  spit  of  Lord  Allthorp,  who  ingaged  every  cotch,  cab, 
and  gobbing  porter  as  conveyancers.  Westmunster  may  thenk 
his  Lordship  it  did  not  lose  its  All.  They  say  the  Lords  and 
Communs  was  connectid  with  a  grate  menny  historicle  asso- 
ciashuns,  wich  of  coarse  will  hav  to  make  good  all  dammage. 

Fortnately,  the  Speker's  mornin,  noon,  and  evning  services  of 
plait  was  not  at  horn,  or  it  mite  hav  sufferd,  for  they  say  goold 
and  silver  as  stud  the  fire  verry  well,  melted  down  when  it  got 
furthur  off.  Tauking  of  plait  a  gentilman,  who  giv  his  card, 
Mr.  William  Soames,  were  verry  kind  and  partickler  in  his 
inquerries  efter  Mr.  Speker's  vallybles.  I  hope  he  will  hav  a 
place  givn  him  for  his  indevvers. 

Ware  the  poor  burnt-out  creturs  will  go  noboddy  nose.  Sum 
say  Exter  Hall,  sum  say  the  Refudge  for  the  Destitut,  and  sum 
say  the  King  will  lend  them  his  Bensh  to  set  upon  !  All  I  no  is. 
I've  had  a  frite  that  will  go  with  me  to  my  grave.  I  am  allways 
snifing  fire  by  day  and  dreeming  on  it  by  nite.  Ony  last  Fryday 
I  allarmd  the  hole  naberhood  by  screaching  out  of  winder  for 
the  warter  to  be  plugged  up.  Liting  fires,  or  striking  lite,  01 
making  tindur,  throes  me  into  fits. 

I  shall  newer  be  the  womman  I  was ;  but  that  is  no  excus  for 
Tohn's  unconstancy.  I  don't  dare  to  take  my  close  off  to  go  to 
bed,  and  I  practice  clambering  up  and  down  by  a  rop  in  case, 
and  I  giv  Police  M  25  a  shillin  now  and  than  to  keep  a  specious 
eye  to  number  fore,  and  be  reddy  to  ketch  anny  won  in  his 
harms.  But  it  cums  to  munny,  and  particly  given  the  ingin 
keeper  a  pint  of  bear  from  time  to  time,  and  drams  to  the  turn- 


THE  GREAT  CONFLAGRATION. 


cox ;  where  there's  nabers  fires  will  happen,  howevver  cerefull 
and  precocius  you  may  be  youreself.  I  dred  our  two  nex  dores  ; 
number  three  is  a  Gurmin  fammily,  and  them  orrid  forriners 
think  nothink  of  smocking  siggars  in  bed,  witch  will  ketch  sum 
day  to  a  certainty.  Number  fiv  is  wus ;  since  his  wif's  death 
Mr.  Sanders  has  betuck  himself  to  cornicle  studis,  and  offin  has 
a  littel  bio  up  amung  his  pistles  and  morters.  O !  Mary,  how 
happy  is  them  as  livs  lick  you,  as  the  song  says,  "  Fur  from  the 
buzzy  aunts  of  men."  If  you're  inflamd  its  nobbody's  folt  but 
yure  hone.  Pray  take  the  greatest  car.  Have  yure  eyes  about, 
you,  and  luck  out  for  sparks ;  watever  the  men  may  say,  don't 
allow  backer  pips  or  long  snufs,  and  let  evvery  boddy  be  thur- 
rowly  put  out.  Don't  neglect  to  rake  out  evvery  nite,  see  that 
evvery  sole  in  the  hows  is  turned  down  xtinguished,  and  allways 
bio  yureself  out  befour  you  go  to  yure  piller.  Thenk  gudness 
you  newer  larnd  to  reed,  and  therefor  will  not  take  anny  bucks 
to  bed  with  you.  Allways  ware  stuff  or  woollin,  insted  of  lite 
cottons  and  gingums,  in  case  of  the  coles  throvvin  out  cofFens  or 
pusses,  by  witch  menny  persons  gains  their  ends.  In  case  of 
yure  pettycots  catchin  don't  forgit  standin  on  yure  head,  as  re- 
commended by  the  Human  Society,  becoz  fire  burns  uppards, 
but  its  a  posishun  as  requiers  practis.  Have  yure  chimbly 
swept  reglar  wonce  a  munth,  and  w7en  visiters  cum  newer  put 
hot  coles  in  the  warmin  pan,  for  fear  you  forgit  and  leave  it  in 
the  spair  bed.  Remember  fire  is  a  good  sarvent  but  a  bad  mas- 
ter, and  sure  enuff  wen  it  is  master  it  never  gives  a  sarvent  a 
munth's  notis.  To  be  shure  we  have  won  marsy  in  town  that 
is  unbenone  in  tne  country,  and  that  there  is  Swingeing ;  is 
no  cornstax  or  heyrix  in  St.  Jims's  Square.  That  is  yure  weeL 
pint,  and  I  trembil  for  the  barns ;  a  rockite  or  a  roaming  candel 
rnite  set  you  in  a  blaze.  But  I  hop  and  trust  wat  I  say  will 
newer  pruve  the  truth.  Oppydildock  is  good  for  burns,  and  1 
am,  dear  Mary, 

Yure  old  and  afexionate  feller  sarvent, 

Ann  Gale. 


Part  n. 


3 


Id 


I'ROSE  AND  VERSE 


THE  JUBB  LETTERS. 

From  Lady  Jubb  to  Mrs.  Phipps,  Housekeeper  at  the  Shrubbery, 
Shrewsbury,  Shrops. 

Mrs.  Phipps  -. 

You  will  prepare  the  house  directly  for  the  family's  return, 
not  that  our  coming  back  is  absolutely  certain,  but  events  have 
happened  to  render  our  stay  in  Portland-Place  very  precarious. 
All  depends  upon  Sir  Jacob.  In  Parliament  or  out  of  Parlia- 
ment his  motions  must  guide  ours.  By  this  time  what  has  hap- 
pened will  be  known  in  Shropshire,  but  I  forbid  your  talking, 
Politics  belong  to  people  of  property,  and  those  who  have  no 
voice  in  the  country  ought  not  to  speak.  In  your  inferior  situa- 
tions it's  a  duty  to  be  ignorant  of  what  you  know.  The  nation 
is  out  of  youi  sphere,  and  besides,  people  out  of  town  cannot 
know  the  state  of  the  country.  I  want  to  put  you  on  your 
guard  j  thanks  to  the  press,  as  Sir  Jacob  says,  public  affairs 
cannot  be  kept  private,  and  the  consequence  is,  the  ignorant  are 
as  well  informed  as  their  betters.  The  burning  of  both  Houses 
of  Parliament  1  am  afraid  cannot  be  hushed  up — but  it  is  not  a 
subject  for  servants,  that  have  neither  upper  nor  lower  members 
amongst  them,  and  represent  nobody.  I  trust  to  you,  Mrs.  Phipps, 
to  discourage  all  discussions  in  the  kitchen,  which  isn't  the  place 
for  parliamentary  canvassing.  The  most  ridiculous  notions  are 
abroad.  I  should  not  be  surprised  even  to  hear  that  Sir  Jacob 
had  lost  his  seat,  because  the  benches  were  burnt,  but  we  have 
been  deprived  of  none  of  our  dignities  or  privileges.  You  wi! 
observe  this  letter  is  franked ;  the  fire  made  no  difference  to 
your  master,  he  is  not  dissolved,  whatever  the  Blues  may  wish — 
lie  is  still  Sir  Jacob  Jubb,  Baronet,  M.  P. 

The  election  of  Sir  Jacob  at  such  a  crisis  was  an  act  of  Provi- 
dence. His  firmness  at  the  fire  affords  an  example  to  posterity ; 
although  the  bench  was  burning  under  him  he  refused  to  retreat, 
replying  emphatically,  "  I  will  sit  by  my  order."  As  far  as  this 
goes  you  may  mention,  and  no  more.  I  enjoin  upon  all  else  a 
diplomatic  silence.  Sir  Jacob  himself  will  write  to  the  bailiff, 
and  whatever  may  be  the  nature  of  his  directions,  I  desire  that 


• 

THE  GREAT  CONFLAGRATION. 


L9 


no  curiosity  may  be  indulged  in,  and  above  all,  that  you  enter- 
tain  no  opinions  of  your  own.  You  cannot  square  with  the 
upper  circles.  I  would  write  more,  but  I  am  going  to  a  meet 
ing,  I  need  not  say  where,  or  upon  what  subject.  I  rely^  Mrs 
Phipps,  on  your  discretion,  and  am,  &c, 

Arabella  Anastasia  Jubb 


To  T.  Crawfurd,  junior,  Esquire,  the  Beeches,  near  Shrewsoury^ 

Shrops. 

Dear  Tom  : 

Throw  up  your  cap  and  huzza.  There's  glorious  news, 
and  so  you'll  say  when  I  tell  you.  I  could  almost  jump  out  of 
my  skin  for  joy  !  Father's  dismembered  !  The  House  of  Com- 
mons caught  fire,  and  he  was  dissolved  along  with  the  rest. 

I've  never  been  happy  since  we  came  up  to  London,  and  all 
through  Parliament.  The  election  was  good  sport  enough.  I 
liked  the  riding  up  and  down,  and  carrying  a  flag ;  and  the  bat- 
tle, with  sticks,  between  the  Blues  and  the  Yellows,  was  famous 
fun  ;  and  I  huzza'd  myself  hoarse  at  our  getting  the  day  at  last. 
But  after  that  came  the  jollup,  as  we  used  to  say  at  Old  Busby's. 
Theme  writing  was  a  fool  to  it.  If  father  composed  one  maiden 
speech  he  composed  a  hundred,  and  he  made  me  knuckle  down 
and  copy  them  all  out,  and  precious  stupid  stuff  it  was.  A  regular 
physicker,  says  you,  and  I'd  worse  to  take  after  it.  He  made  us 
all  sit  down  and  hear  him  spout  them,  and  a  poor  stick  he  made. 
— Dick  Willis,  that  we  used  to  call  Handpost,  was  a  dab  at  it 
compared  to  him.  He's  no  better  hand  at  figures,  so  much  the 
worse  for  me,  Did  you  ever  have  a  fag,  Tom,  at  the  national 
debt  ?  I  don't  know  who  owes  it,  but  I  wish  he'd  pay  it,  or  be 
made  bankrupt  at  once.  I've  worked  more  sums  last  month 
than  ever  I  did  at  school  in  the  half  year, — geography  the 
same.  I  had  to  hunt  out  Don  Carlos  and  Don  Pedro,  all  over 
the  maps.  I  came  in  for  a  regular  wigging  one  day,  for  wish- 
ing both  the  Dons  were  well  peppered,  as  Tom  Tough  says. 
I've  seen  none  of  the  sights  I  wanted  to  see.  He  wouldn't  let 
me  go  to  the  play,  because  he  says  the  theatres  are  bad  schools, 
and  would  give  me  a  vicious  style  of  elocution.    The  only 


20 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


pleasure  he  promised  me  was  to  sit  in  the  gallery  at  the  Com- 
mons and  see  him  present  his  petitions.  Short-hand  would  have 
come  next,  that  I  might  take  down  his  speechifying — for  he  says 
the  reporters  all  garble.  An't  I  well  out  of  it  all — and  a  place 
he  was  to  get  for  me  besides,  from  the  Prime  Minister  ?  I  sup- 
pose the  Navy  Pay,  to  sit  on  a  high  stool  and  give  Jack  Junk  one 
pound  two  and  nine  pence  twice  a  year.  I'd  rather  be  Jack 
himself,  wouldn't  you,  Tom?  But  father's  lost  his  wicket,  and 
huzza  for  Shropshire  !  In  hopes  of  our  soon  meeting,  I  remain, 
my  dear  Tom, 

Your  old  chum  and  schoolfellow, 

Frederick  Jubb. 

P.  S. — A  court  gentleman  has  just  come  in,  with  a  knock-me- 
down-again.  He  says  there's  to  be  a  new  election.  I  wish 
you'd  do  something ;  it  would  be  a  real  favor,  and  I  will  do  as 
much  for  you  another  time.  What  I  want  of  you  is,  to  get  your 
father  to  set  up  against  mine.  Do  try,  Tom — there's  a  good 
fellow.  I  will  ask  every  body  I  know  to  give  your  side  a 
plumper. 


To  Mr.  Roger  Davis,  Bailiff,  the  Shrubbery,  near  Shrewsbury. 
Davis, 

I  hope  to  God  this  will  find  you  at  home — I  am  wnting  in  a 
state  of  mind  bordering  on  madness.  I  can't  collect  myself  to 
give  particulars — you  will  have  a  newspaper  along  with  this — 
read  that,  and  your  hair  will  stand  on  end.  Incendiarism  has 
reached  its  height  like  the  flaming  thing  on  the  top  of  the  Monu- 
ment. Our  crisis  is  come.  To  my  mind — political  suicide — is 
as  bad  as  felo  de  se.  Oh  Whigs,  Whigs,  Whigs — what  have 
you  brought  us  to !  As  the  Britannic  Guardian  well  says — 
England  is  gone  to  Italy — London  is  at  Naples — and  we  are  all 
standing  on  the  top  of  Vesuvius.  I  have  heard  and  I  believe 
it — that  an  attempt  has  been  made  to  choke  Aldgate  Pump.  A 
Waltham  Abbey  paper  says  positively  that  the  mills  were 
recently  robbed  of  513  barrels  of  powder,  the  exact  number  of 


THE  GREAT  CONFLAGRATION. 


2i 


the  members  for  England  and  Wales.  What  a  diabolical  re- 
finement— to  blow  up  a  government  with  its  own  powder !  I 
can  hardly  persuade  myself  I  am  in  England.  God  knows 
where  it  will  spread  to — I  mean  the  incendiary  spirit.  The  dry 
season  is  frightful — I  suppose  the  springs  are  all  dry.  Keep  the 
engine  locked  in  the  stable,  for  fear  of  a  cut  at  the  pipes.  I'll 
send  you  down  two  more.  Let  all  the  laborers  take  a  turn  at 
them,  by  way  of  practice.  I'm  persuaded  the  Parliament  houses 
were  burnt  on  purpose.  The  flue  story  is  ridiculous.  Mr. 
Cooper's  is  a  great  deal  more  to  the  point.  I  believe  everything 
[  hear.  A  bunch  of  matches  was  found  in  the  Speaker's 
kitchen.  I  saw  something  suspicious  myself — some  said  treacle, 
but  I  say  tar.  Have  your  eyes  about  you — lock  all  the  gates, 
•  day  as  well  as  night — and  above  all,  watch  the  stacks.  One 
Tiger  is  not  enough — get  three  or  four  more,  I  should  have  said 
Cresar,  but  you  know  I  mean  the  house-dog.  Good  mastiffs, — 
the  biggest  and  savagest  you  can  get.  The  gentry  will  be  at- 
tempted first — beginning  with  the  M.  P.'s.  You  and  Barnes  and 
Sam  must  sit  up  by  turns — and  let  the  maids  sit  up  too — women 
have  sharp  ears  and  sharp  tongues. — If  a  mouse  stirs  I  would 
have  them  squall — danger  or  no  danger.  It's  the  only  way  to 
sleep  in  security — and  comfort.  I  have  read  that  the  common 
goose  is  a  vigilant  creature — and  saved  Rome.  Get  a  score  of 
them — at  the  next  market — don't  stand  about  price — but  choose 
them  -with  good  cackles.  Alarm  them  now  and  then  to  keep 
them  watchful.  Fire  the  blunderbuss  off  every  night,  and  both 
fowling-pieces  and  the  pistols.  If  all  the  gentry  did  as  much, 
it  might  keep  the  country  quiet.  If  you  were  to  ring  the  alarm- 
bell  once  or  twice  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  it  would  be  as 
well — you  would  know  then  what  help  to  depend  upon.  Search 
the  house  often  from  the  garret  to  the  cellar,  for  combustibles — 
if  you  could  manage  to  go  without  candles,  or  any  sort  of  light, 
it  would  be  better.  You'd  find  your  way  about  in  the  dark  after 
a  little  practice. 

Pray  don't  allow  any  sweethearts  ;  they  may  be  Swings  and 
Captain  Rocks  in  disguise,  and  their  pretended  flames  turn  out 
real.    I've  misgivings  about  the  maids.    Tie  them  up,  and  taste 


22 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


iheir  liver,  before  they  eat  it  themselves — I  mean  the  housedogs  ; 
but  my  agitation  makes  me  unconnected.  The  scoundrels  often 
poison  them,  before  they  attempt  robbery  and  arson.  Keep  the 
cattle  in  the  cowhouse  for  fear  of  their  being  houghed  and 
hamstrung.  Surely  there  were  great  defects  somewhere.  The 
Houses  could  not  have  been  properly  protected — if  they  had 
been  watched  as  well  as  they  were  lighted — but  it  is  too  late  to 
cast  any  blame  on  individuals.  A  paltry  spirit  of  economy  has 
been  our  bane.  A  few  shillings  would  have  purchased  a  watch- 
dog ;  and  one  or  two  geese  in  each  house  might  have  saved  the 
capitol  of  the  constitution  !  But  the  incendiary  knew  how  to 
choose  his  time — an  adjournment  when  there  were  none  sitting. 
I  say,  incendiary,  because  no  doubt  can  exist  in  any  cool  mind, 
that  enters  into  the  conflagration.  I  transcribe  conclusive  ex- 
tracts from  several  papers,  the  editors  of  which  I  know  to  be 
upright  men,  and  they  all  write  on  one  side. 

"  We  are  confidently  informed,"  says  the  Beacon,  "  that  a 
quantity  of  tar- barrels  was  purchased  at  No.  2,  High-street, 
Shad  well,  about  ten  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  fire.  There 
was  abundant  time  before  six  a.  m.,  for  removing  the  combusti- 
bles to  Westminster.  The  purchaser  was  a  short,  squat,  down- 
looking  man,  and  the  name  on  his  cart  was  I.  Burns." 

"  Trifling  circumstances,"  says  the  Sentinel,  "  sometimes 
point  to  great  results.  Our  own  opinion  is  formed.  We  have 
made  it  our  business  to  examine  the  Guys  in  preparation  for  the 
impending  anniversary  of  the  Gunpowder  Plot,  and  we  affirm, 
that  every  one  of  the  effigies  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  some 
member  or  other  of  assemblies  we  need  not  name.  These  are 
signs  of  the  times." 

"  We  should  be  loth,"  says  the  Detector,  "  to  impute  the  late 
calamity  to  any  particular  party  :  but  we  may  reasonably  inquire 
what  relative  stake  in  the  country  is  possessed  by  the  Whigs  and 
the  Tories.  The  English  language  may  be  taken  as  a  fair 
standard.  The  first  may  lay  claim  to  perl-wig,  scratch-wig, 
tie-wig,  bob-wig,  in  short,  the  whole  family  of  peruques,  with 
whigmaleery .  The  latter,  not  to  mention  other  good  things, 
have  a  vested  right  in  oratory,  history,  territory,  and  victory. 


THE  GREAT  CONFLAGRATION. 


aa 


Can  a  man  of  common  patriotism  have  a  doubt  which  side  it  is 
his  interest  to  adhere  to  V 

That  last  paragraph,  Davis,  is  what  I  call  sound  argument. 
Indeed  I  don't  see  how  it  is  to  be  answered.  You  see  they  are 
all  nem.  con.  as  to  our  danger,  and  decidedly  reckon  fire  an 
inflammatory  agent.  Take  care  what  you  read.  Very  per- 
nicious doctrines  are  abroad,  and  especially  across  the  Western 
Channel.  The  Irish  are  really  frightful.  T'm  told  they  tie  the 
cows'  tails  together,  and  then  saw  off  their  horns  for  insurrec- 
tionary bugles.  The  foundations  of  society  are  shaken  all  over 
the  world — the  Whiteboys  in  Ireland,  and  the  Blacks  in  the  West 
Indies,  all  seem  to  fight  under  the  same  colors.  It's  time  for 
honest  men  to  rally  round  themselves — but  I'm  sorry  to  say 
public  spirit  and  love  of  one's  country  are  at  a  low  ebb.  There's 
too  much  Americanism.  One  writer  wants  us  to  turn  all  our 
English  wheat  to  Indian  corn,  and  to  grow  no  sort  of  apples  but 
Franklin  pippins.  We  want  strong  measures  against  associa- 
tions and  unions.  There's  demagogues  abroad — and  they  wear 
white  hats.  By-the-bye,  I  more  than  half  suspect  that  fellow 
Johnson  is  a  delegate.  Take  him  to  the  ale-house,  and  treat 
him  freely — it  may  warm  him  to  blab  something.  Besides, 
you  will  see  what  sort  of  papers -the  public-houses  take  in. 
You  may  drop  a  hint  about  their  licenses.  Give  my  compliments 
to  Dr.  Garratt,  and  tell  him  I  hope  he  will  preach  to  the  times, 
and  take  strong  texts.  I  wish  I  could  be  down  amongst  you,  but 
1  cannot  desert  my  post.  You  may  tell  the  tenantry,  and  elec- 
tors— I'm  burnt  out  and  gutted — but  my  heart's  in  the  right 
place — and  devoted  to  constituents.  Come  what  may,  I  will  be 
an  unshaken  pillar  on  the  basis  of  my  circular  letter.  Don't 
forget  any  of  my  precautions.  I  am  sorry  I  did  not  bring  all 
the  plaie  up  to  town — but  at  the  first  alarm  bury  it.  Take  in 
no  letters  or  notices ;  for  what  you  know  they  may  be  threaten- 
ings.  If  any  Irishman  applies  for  work,  discharge  him  instantly. 
All  the  old  spring-guns  had  better  be  set  again,  they  are  not  now 
legal,  but  I  am  ministerial,  and  if  they  dyd  go  off,  the  highei 
powers  would  perhaps  wink  at  them.  But  it's  the  fire  that  I'm 
afraid  of,  fire  that  destroyed  my  political  roof,  and  may  now 
assail  my  paternal  one.    Walk,  as  I  may  say,  bucket  in  hand 


24 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


and  be  ready  every  moment  for  a  break  out.  You  may  set  fire 
to  the  small  faggot-stack,  and  try  your  hands  at  getting  it  under 
— there's  nothing  worse  than  being  taken  by  surprise.  Read 
this  letter  frequently,  and  impress  these  charges  on  your  mind. 
It  is  a  sad  change  for  England  to  have  become,  I  may  say,  this 
fiery  furnace.  I  have  not  the  least  doubt,  if  properly  traced, 
the  burning  cliff  at  Weymouth  would  be  found  to  be  connected 
with  Incendiarism,  and  the  Earthquakes  at  Chichester  with  our 
political  convulsions.  Thank  Providence  in  your  prayers,  Davis, 
that  your  own  station  forbids  your  being  an  M.P.,  for  a  place 
in  parliament  is  little  better  than  sitting  on  a  barrel  of  gun- 
powder. Honor  forbids  to  resign,  or  I  should  wish  I  was  nothing 
but  a  simple  country  gentleman.  Remember,  and  be  vigilant. 
Once  more  I  cry  Watch,  Watch,  Watch !  By  adopting  the 
motions  I  propose,  aN  conflagration  may  be  adjourned  sine  die, 
which  is  a  petition  perpetually  presented  by 

Your  anxious 
but  uncompromising  Master, 

Jacob  Jubb,  M.P. 


To  Lady  Jubb,  at  45,  Portland  Place. 
Respected  Madam, 

I  received  your  Ladyship's  obliging  commands,  and  have  used 
my  best  endeavors  to  conform  to  the  wishes  condescended 
therein.  In  respect  to  political  controversy,  I  beg  to  say  I  have 
imposed  a  tacit  silence  on  the  domestic  capacities  as  far  as  within 
the  sphere  of  my  control,  but  lament  to  say  the  Bailiff,  Mr. 
Davis,  is  a  party  unamenable  to  my  authority,  and  as  such  has 
taken  liberties  with  decorum  quite  unconsistent  with  propriety 
and  the  decency  due.  However  reluctant  to  censoriousness. 
duty  compels  to  communicate  subversive  conduct  quite  uncon- 
formable to  decency's  rules  and  order  in  a  well-regulated  estab- 
lishment. I  allude  to  Mr.  Davis's  terrifically  jumping  out  from 
behind  doors  and  in  obscure  dark  corners,  on  the  female  domes- 
tics, for  no  reasonable  purpose  I  can  discover,  except  to  make 
them  exert  their  voices  in  a  very  alarming  manner.   The  house- 


THE  GREAT  CONFLAGRATION. 


25 


maid,  indeed,  confirms  me  by  saying  in  her  own  words,  "  he  con- 
sidered her  skreek  the  best  skreek  in  the  family."  If  impropriety 
had  proceeded  no  further,  I  should  have  hesitated  to  trouble  your 
Ladyship  with  particulars ;  but  Mr.  Davis,  not  satisfied  with 
thus  working  on  the  unsophisticated  terrors  of  ignorant  females, 
thought  proper  to  horrify  with  inflammatory  reports.  One  night, 
as  a  prominent  instance,  about  twelve  o'clock,  he  rang  the  alarm 
bell  so  violently,  at  the  same  time  proclaiming  conflagration, 
that  the  law  of  preservation  became  our  paramount  duty,  and, 
as  a  consequence,  we  all  escaped  in  a  state  of  dishabille  only  to 
be  ambiguously  hinted  at,  by  saying  that  time  did  not  allow  to 
put  on  my  best  lutestring  to  meet  the  neighboring  gentry— rand 
must  add,  with  indignation,  in  the  full  blaze  of  a  heap  of  straw, 
thought  proper  to  be  set  on  fire  by  Mr.  Davis  in  the  fore-court. 
I  trust  your  Ladyship  will  excuse  a  little  warmth  of  language, 
in  saying  it  was  highly  reprehensible ;  but  I  have  not  depictured 
the  worst.  I,  one  evening,  lighted  up  what  1  conceived  to  be  a 
mould  candle,  and  your  Ladyship  will  imagine  my  undescriba- 
ble  fright  when  it  exploded  itself  like  a  missile  of  the  squib  des- 
cription, an  unwarrantable  mode,  I  must  say,  of  convincing  me, 
as  Mr.  Davis  had  the  audaciousness  to  own  to,  that  we  may  be 
made  to  be  actors  in  our  own  combustion.  To  suppose  at  my 
years  and  experience,  I  can  be  unsensible  of  .the  danger  of  fire, 
must  be  a  preposterous  notion ;  but  all  his  subsequent  acts  par- 
take an  agreeable  character.  For  fear  of  being  consumed  in 
our  beds,  as  he  insidiously  professed,  he  exerted  all  his  influen- 
tial arguments  to  persuade  the  females  to  sit  up  nocturnally  all 
night,  a  precaution  of  course  declined,  as  well  as  his  following 
scheme  being  almost  too  much  broached  with  absurdity  to  enu- 
merate. I  mean  every  retiring  female  reposing  her  confidence 
on  a  live  goose  in  her  chamber,  as  were  purchased  for  the  ex- 
press purpose,  but  need  not  add  were  dispensed  with  by  rational 
beings.  I  trust  your  Ladyship  will  acquit  of  uncharitableness 
if  I  suspect  it  was  out  of  vindictive  feelings  at  their  opposition  to 
the  geese,  that  Mr.  Davis  insinuated  a  strict  inquiry  into  every 
individual  that  came  into  the  house,  as  far  even  as  requiring  to 
be  personally  present  at  all  that  passed  between  the  dairymaid 
and  her  cousin.    It  escaped  memory  to  say  that  when  the  femi- 


28 


THOSE  AND  VERSE. 


nine  department  refused  to  be  deprived  of  rest,  the  male  servants 
were  equally  adverse  to  go  to  bed,  being  spirited  up  by  Mr. 
Davis  to  spend  the  night  together,  and  likewise  being  furnished 
with  the  best  strong  ale  in  the  cellar,  by  his  imperious  directions, 
which,  by  way  of  climax  to  assurance,  was  alleged  to  be  by 
order  of  Sir  Jacob  himself.  I  say  nothing  reflectively  on  his 
repeatedly  discharging  his  artillery  at  unseasonable  hours,  the 
shock  principally  concerning  my  own  nervous  constitution, 
which  was  so  vibrated  as  to  require  calling  in  physical  powers  ; 
and  Doctor  Tudor,  considering  advanced  age  and  infirmity,  is 
of  opinion  I  may  require  to  be  under  his  professional  hands  for  an 
ensuing  twelvemonth.  Of  startling  effects  upon  other  parties  1 
may  make  comments  more  unreserved,  and  without  harsh  ex- 
tenuation must  say,  his  letting  off  reports  without  due  notice, 
frequently  when  the  females  had  valuable  cut  glass  and  china 
in  their  hands,  or  on  their  trays,  was  blameable  in  the  extreme, 
to  express  the  least  of  it.  Another  feature  which  caused  much 
unpleasantness,  was  Mr.  Davis  persisting  to  scrutinize  and  rum- 
mage the  entire  premises  from  top  to  bottom,  but  on  this  charac- 
teristic tediousness  forbids  to  dwell,  and  more  particularly  as 
mainly  affecting  himself,  such  as  the  flow  of  blood  from  his  nose, 
and  two  coagulated  eyes,  from  the  cellar  door,  through  a  pecu- 
liar whim  of  looking  for  everything  in  a  state  of  absolute  obscu- 
rity. I  may  add,  by  way  of  incident,  that  Mr.  Davis  walks 
lame  from  a  canine  injury  in  the  calf  of  his  leg,  which  I  hope 
will  not  prove  rabid  in  the  end, — but  the  animals  he  has  on  his 
own  responsibility  introduced  on  the  premises,  really  resemble, 
begging  your  Ladyship's  pardon  for  the  expression,  what  are 
denominated  D.'s  incarnate. 

Such,  your  Ladyship,  is  the  unpropitious  posture  of  domestic 
affairs  at  the  Shrubbery,  originating,  I  must  say,  exclusively 
from  the  unprecedented  deviations  of  Mr.  Davis.  A  mild  con- 
struction would  infer,  from  such  extraordinary  extravagance  of 
conduct,  a  flightiness,  or  aberration  of  mind  in  the  individual, 
but  I  deeply  lament  to  say  a  more  obvious  cause  exists  to  put  a 
negative  on  such  a  surmise.  For  the  last  week  Mr.  Davis  has 
betrayed  an  unusual  propensity  to  pass  his  evenings  at  the  George 
Tavern,  and  in  consequence  has  several  times  exhibited  himself 


THE  GREAT  CONFLAGRATION. 


27 


in  a  Bacchanalian  character  to  our  extreme  discomforture,  and 
on  one  occasion  actually  trespassed  so  far  beyond  the  bounds  of 
modesty,  as  to  offer  me  the  rudeness  of  a  salute.  I  blush  to  im- 
part such  details  to  your  Ladyship  ;  but  justice  demands  an  ex- 
plicit statement,  however  repulsive  to  violated  reserve  and  the 
rules  of  virtue.  Amongst  less  immoral  actions,  I  must  advert  to 
the  arrival  of  two  new  engines  with  a  vast  number  of  leathern 
buckets,  I  fear  ordered  by  Mr.  Davis  at  my  honored  master's  ex- 
pense, and  which  are  periodically  exercised  in  pumping  every 
day,  by  the  gardeners  and  the  hinds,  being  induced  thereto  by 
extra  beverages  of  strong  beer.  By  such  means  the  aquatic 
supply  of  the  well  is  frequently  exhausted  by  playing  upon 
nothing, — and  at  this  present  moment  I  am  justified  in  stating 
we  have  not  sufficient  water  to  fulfil  culinary  purposes,  or  the 
demands  of  cleanliness.  I  feel  ashamed  to  say  there  is  not  a 
strictly  clean  cap  in  the  whole  household. 

In  short.  Madam,  we  labor  under  an  aggravated  complication 
of  insubordination,  deprivation,  discomfort,  and  alarm,  daily  and 
nightly,  such  as  to  shock  my  eyes  whilst  it  grieves  my  heart, 
and  I  may  almost  say  turns  my  head  to  be  present  at,  without  suffi- 
cient authority  to  dictate  or  power  to  enforce  a  course  more  con- 
sistent with  the  line  of  rectitude.  As  my  sway  does  not  extend  to 
Mr.  Davis,  I  humbly  beseech  your  Ladyship's  interference  and 
influence  in  the  proper  quarter,  in  behalf,  I  may  say,  of  a  body 
of  persecuted  females,  some  of  whom  possess  cultivated  minds 
and  sensitive  feelings  beyond  their  sphere. 

I  remain,  respected  Madam 
Your  Ladyship's  most  obliged  and  very  humble  Servant, 

Amelia  Phipps. 

P.  S. — One  of  Mr.  Davis's  savage,  bull-baiting  dogs  has  just 
rushed  with  a  frightful  crash  into  the  china-closet,  in  pursuit  of 
the  poor  cat. 


To  Sir  Jacob  Jubb,  Baronet,  M.  P. 

HoNNERD  SUR, 

Yure  faver  enclosin  the  Ruings  of  the  Parlimint  houses 
cam  dully  to  hand,  and  did  indeed  put  up  all  the  hares  on  my 


2S 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


hed.  It  cam  like  the  bust  of  a  thunder  bolt.  You  mite  hav 
nockt  me  down  with  the  fether  of  a  ginny  ren.  My  bran  swum.. 
I  seamed  rooted  to  the  hearth — and  did  not  no  weather  I  was  a 
slip  or  a  wack,  on  my  hed  or  my  heals.  I  was  perfecly  uncon- 
sh unable,  and  could  no  more  kollect  meself  than  the  Hirish  tiths. 
I  was  a  long  Tim  befor  I  cud  perswade  meself  that  the  trooth 
was  trew.  But  sich  a  dredful  fire  is  enufTto  unsettil  wons  resin. 
A  thowsend  ears  mite  role  over  our  heds,  and  not  prodeuce  sich 
a  bio  to  the  constitushun.  I  was  barley  sensible.  The  Currier 
dropt  from  my  hands  wen  I  cam  to  the  perrygraft  witch  says 
"  Our  hops  are  at  an  end.  The  Hous  of  Communs  is  a  boddy 
of  Flams,  and  so  is  the  Hous  of  Pears !    The  Lords  will  be  dun  I" 

Honnerd  Sur,  I  beg  to  kondole  as  becums  on  yure  missin  yure 
seat.  It  must  have  bean  the  suddinest  of  shox,  &  jest  wen  goin  to 
sit  after  standin  for  the  hole  county,  on  yure  hone  futting,  at  your 
sole  expens.  But  I  do  hop  and  trust  it  will  not  be  yure  dissolu- 
shun,  as  sum  report ;  I  do  hop  it  is  onely  an  emty  rummer  pict 
up  at  sum  publick  Hous.  At  such  an  encindery  crisus  our  wust 
frend  wood  be  General  Elixion,  by  stirrin  up  inflametory 
peple,  particly  if  there  was  a  long  pole.  You  see,  Sir  Jacob,  I 
konker  in  evvery  sentashus  sentemint  in  yure  respected  Letter. 
The  Volkano  you  menshun  I  can  enter  into.  Theres  a  great 
deal  of  combustibul  sperits  in  the  country  that  onely  wants  a 
spark  to  convart  them  into  catarax  : — and  I  greave  to  say  evvery 
inflametory  little  demy  Gog  is  nust,  and  has  the  caudle  support 
of  certin  pappers.  Im  alludin  to  the  Press.  From  this  sort  of 
countenins  the  nashunal  aspec  gits  moor  friteful  evvery  day.  I 
see  no  prospex  for  the  next  generashun  but  rocking  and  swinging. 
I  hav  had  a  grate  menny  low  thorts,  for  wat  can  be  moor  dis- 
piritin  then  the  loss  of  our  two  gratest  Public  Housis  !  There  is 
nothin  cumfortable.  There  is  a  Vesuvus  under  our  feat,  and 
evvery  step  brings  us  nearer  to  its  brinks.  Evvery  reflective 
man  must  say  we  are  a  virgin  on  a  precipus. 

Honnerd  Sur !  In  the  mean  tim  I  hav  pade  attenshuns  to  yure 
letter,  and  studid  its  epistlery  direcshuns,  witch  I  hav  made 
meself  very  particlar  in  fulfiling  to  the  utmost  xtent.  If  the 
most  zellus  effuts  have  not  sucksedid  to  wish  I  humbly  beg  no 
blame  but  wat  is  dew  may  fall  on  me,  and  hope  other  peples 


THE  GRSlH  CONFLAGRATION 


29 


shears  will  visit  their  hone  heds.  The  axident  with  the  spring 
gun  was  no  neglex  of  mine.  After  Barnes  settin  it  himself,  his 
tumblin  over  the  wier  must  be  lade  to  his  hone  dore  along  Math  his 
shot  legs.  I  sent  for  two  surgings  to  sea  to  him,  and  they  cauld 
in  too  moor,  so  that  he  is  certin  of  a  good  dressin,  but  he  was 
very  down-harted  about  gittin  a  livin,  till  I  tolled  him  yure 
honner  wood  settle  on  him  for  the  rest  of  his  days.  I  may  say  the 
lik  of  the  other  axident  to  Sanders  and  Sam,  who  got  badly 
woundid  wile  wotchin  the  stax,  by  apprehendin  won  another  after 
a  sanguine  conflic  by  mistake  for  incinderies.  I  have  promist  in 
yure  honners  nam  to  reword  them  boath  hansumly  for  their  vigi- 
iings,  but  they  stedfistly  refus  to  padrol  anny  moor  after  dusk, 
tho  they  ar  agreble  by  daylit,  which  leaves  me  at  my  whits  ends 
for  Fi regards,  as  strange  men  would  not  be  trussworthy. 

Honnerd  Sur — I  am  sorry  I  cood  not  git  the  mad  servents  to 
set  up  for  theaves,  even  for  wun  nite  runnin.  I  tried  the  Currier 
on  them,  but  it  didn't  wurk  on  there  minds  ;  they  tuck  lites  in 
their  hands  and  waukd  to  there  pillers  as  if  they  hadn't  a  car  on 
there  heds,  and  wen  I  insistid  on  their  allarmin  me  they  all  give 
me  warnin.  As  for  the  swetharts  there's  a  duzzen  domesticat- 
ted  luvers  in  the  kitchen,  and  I'm  sorry  to  say  I  can't  give  them 
all  a  rowt.  I  ketchd  the  cook's  bo  gettin  in  at  a  winder,  and 
sercht  his  pockets  for  feer  of  fosfrus,  but  he  contaned  nothin 
xcept  a  cruckid  sixpens,  a  taler's  thimbel,  and  a  tin  backy-box, 
with  a  lock  of  hare  witch  did  not  match  with  cook's.  It  is  dan- 
gerus  wurk.  Becos  I  luck  after  the  mades  candels  they  tie 
strings  to  the  banesters  to  ketch  my  fut,  and  I  have  twice  pitcht 
from  the  hed  to  the  fut  of  the  stars.  I  am  riting  with  my  forrid 
brandid  and  brown  pepperd,  and  my  rite  hand  in  a  poltus  from 
gropping  in  the  dark  for  cumbustibils  in  the  cole  seller,  and  dis- 
kivering  nothin  but  the  torturous  kat  and  her  kittings. 

Honnerd  Sur — I  got  six  capitol  gees  a  bargin,  but  am  verry 
dubbius  weather  they  possess  the  property  that  ort  to  make  them 
wakful  and  weary  of  nites.  The  old  specious  may  be  lost.  The 
Roman  gees  you  menshun  wood  certinly  hav  newer  sufferd 
themselvs  to  be  stolen  without  a  cakeling  as  our  hone  did  too 
nites  ago.  As  for  the  wotch  dogs,  to  be  candied,  they  were  all 
errers  in  gudgment.    There  was  to  much  Bui  in  the  bread.  The 


30 


prose  and  verse 


verry  fust  nite  they  were  let  lose  they  flew  in  a  rag.  and  began 
to  vent  their  caning  propensites  on  each  other's  curcases.  I  re- 
gret to  say  too  was  wurried  to  deth  before  the  next  mourning, 
and  the  rest  were  so  full  of  bad  bits  and  ingeries  in  there  vittles 
the3r  were  obligated  to  be  kild.  In  shutting  Seazer  with  the 
blunderbush,  I  lament  to  ad  it  hung  fire,  and  in  liftin  it  went  off 
of  its  hone  hed  and  shot  the  bucher's  horse  at  the  gait,  and  he 
has  thretind  to  tak  the  law  if  he  isn't  made  good,  as  he  was 
verry  vallyble. 

Honnerd  Sur — Accordin  to  orders  I  tuck  Johnson  the  suspishus 
man  evvery  nite  to  the  Gorge,  and  told  him  to  caul  for  wat  he 
likt,  witch  was  allways  an  ot  suppir  and  Punch.  As  yet  he  as 
diskivered  nothin  but  sum  lov  nonsins  about  a  deary-made,  so 
that  its  uncertin  weather  he  is  a  dillygate  or  not  ;  but  I  shood 
say  a  desinin  won,  for  by  sum  artful  meens  he  allways  manniged 
to  make  me  drunk  fust,  and  gennerally  lent  a  hand  to  carry  me 
home.  I  told  the  landlord  to  let  him  have  aney  thing  he  wantid 
and  yure  Honner  wood  pay  the  skore,  but  I  think  it  was  unpru- 
dent  of  Mr.  Tapper  to  let  him  run  up  to  ten  pound.  But  it  isn't 
all  drink,  but  eating  as  well — Johnson  has  a  very  glutinous  ap- 
petit,  and  always  stix  to  the  tabel  as  long  as  there  is  meet. 

Honnerd  Sur — Last  fridy  morning  there  was  grate  riotism 
and  sines  of  the  populus  risin,  and  accordin  I  lost  no  time  in 
berryin  the  plait  as  derected  by  yure  ordirs.  I  am  gratifid  to 
say  the  disturbans  turned  out  onely  a  puggleistical  fit ;  but 
owen  to  our  hurry  and  allarm,  the  spot  ware  the  plait  was  berrid 
went  out  of  our  heads.  We  have  since  dug  up  the  hole  srub- 
bery,  but  without  turnin  up  anny  thing  in  its  shape.  But  it 
cant  be  lost,  tho'  it  isnt  to  be  found.  The  gardner  swares  the 
srubs  will  all  di  from  being  transplanted  at  unproper  sesin — but 
I  trust  it  is  onely  his  old  grumblin  stile  witch  he  cannot  git  over. 

Honnerd  Sur — The  wust  is  to  cum.  In  casis  of  Fire  the 
trooth  is  shure  to  brake  out  sunner  or  latter,  so  I  may  as  well 
cum  to  the  catstrophy  without  any  varnish  on  my  tail.  This 
morning,  according  to  yure  order,  I  hignitted  the  littel  faggit  stak, 
fust  takin  the  precawshuny  meshure  of  drawin  up  a  line  of  men 
with  buckits,  from  the  dux-pond  to  the  sene  of  combusting. 
Nothing  can  lay  therefor  on  my  sholders  :  it  all  riz  from  the 


THE  GREAT  CONFLAGRATION. 


31 


men  striking  for  bear,  wen  they  ort  to  hav  bean  handin  warter 
to  won  another.  I  felt  my  deuty  to  argy  the  pint,  which  I  trust 
will  be  apruved,  and  wile  we  were  eussin  and  discussin  the  fire 
got  a  hed  that  defide  all  our  unitted  pours  to  subdo.  To  con- 
fess the  fax,  the  fire  inguns  ware  all  lokt  up  in  a  stabble  with  a 
shy  key  that  had  lost  itself  the  day  before,  and  was  not  to  be 
had  wen  we  wantid  to  lay  hands  on  it.  Not  that  we  could  have 
wurked  the  inguns  if  they  had  faverd  with  their  presens,  for 
want  of  hands.  Evvery  boddy  had  run  so  offen  at  the  allarm 
bell  that  they  got  noboddy  to  go  in  there  steed.  It  was  an  haw- 
ful  site  ;  the  devowring  ellemint  swallerd  won  thing  after  ano- 
ther as  sune  as  cotched,  and  rushed  along  roring  with  friteful 
violins.  Were  the  finger  of  Providins  is  the  hand  as  does  we 
must  not  arrange  it,  but  as  the  him  says,  "  we  must  submit  and 
humbel  Bee."  Heavin  direx  the  winds,  and  not  us.  As  it  blue 
towards  the  sow  the  piggry  sune  cotchd,  and  that  cotchd  the 
foul  housis,  and  then  the  barn  cotchd  with  all  the  straw,  and 
the  granery  cotched  next,  witch  it  wood  not  have  dun  if  we  had 
puld  down  the  Cow  Hous  that  stud  between.  That  was  all  the 
cotching,  excep  the  hay-stax,  from  Jenkins  runnin  about  with  a 
flamin  tale  to  his  smoak-frock.  At  last,  by  a  blessin,  when  there 
was  no  moor  to  burn  it  was  got  under  and  squentched  itself, 
prays  be  given  without  loss  of  lif  or  lim.  Another  comfit  is  all 
bein  inshured  in  the  Sun,  enuff  to  kiver  it ;  and  I  shud  hop  they 
will  not  refus  to  make  gud  on  the  ground  that  it  was  dun  wilful 
by  our  hone  ax  and  deeds.  But  fire  officis  are  sumtimes  verry 
unlibberal,  and  will  ketch  hold  of  a  burning  straw,  and  if  fax 
were  put  on  their  oths  I  couldn't  deni  a  bundil  of  rags,  matchis, 
candel  ends,  and  other  combustibils  pokt  into  the  faggits,  and 
then  litin  up  with  my  hone  hand.  Tim  will  sho.  In  the  meen- 
while  I  am  consienshusly  easy,  it  was  dun  for  the  best,  though 
turned  out  for  the  wust,  and  am  gratifid  to  reflect  that  I  hav 
omitted  nothin,  but  have  scruppleusly  fulfild  evvery  particler  of 
yure  honner's  instruxions,  and  in  hap  of  approval  of  the  saim, 
await  the  faver  of  furthir  commands,  and  am, 
Honnerd  Sur  Jacob, 
Your  humbel,  faithful,  and  obedient  Servint, 
Roger  Davis. 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


A  TALE  OF  A  TRUMPET. 


"  Old  woman,  old  woman,  will  you  gc  &-shearing  ? 
Speak  a  little  louder,  for  I'm  very  hard  of  hearing." 

Old  Bai/las 

Of  all  old  women  hard  of  hearing, 
The  deafest,  sure,  was  Dame  Eleanor  Spearing  I 
On  her  head  it  is  true, 
Two  flaps  there  grew, 
That  served  for  a  pair  of  gold  rings  to  go  through^ 
But  for  any  purpose  of  ears  in  a  parley, 
They  heard  no  more  than  ears  of  barley. 

No  hint  was  needed  from  D.  E.  F. 

You  saw  in  her  face  that  the  woman  was  deaf: 

From  her  twisted  mouth  to  her  eyes  so  peery 

Each  queer  feature  ask'd  a  query ; 
A  look  that  said  in  a  silent  way, 
"  Who  ?  and  What  ?  and  How  ?  and  Eh  ? 
I'd  give  my  ears  to  know  what  you  say  !" 

And  well  she  might !  for  each  auricular 

Was  deaf  as  a  post — and  that  post  in  particular 

That  stands  at  the  corner  of  Dyott  Street  now, 

And  never  hears  a  word  of  a  row  ! 

Ears  that  might  serve  her  now  and  then 

As  extempore  racks  for  an  idle  pen  ; 

Or  to  hang  with  hoops  from  jewellers'  shops 

With  coral,  ruby,  or  garnet  drops ; 

Or,  provided  the  owner  so  inclined, 


A  TALE  OF  A  TRUMPET. 


Ears  to  stick  a  blister  behind  ; 

But  as  for  hearing  wisdom,  or  wit, 

Falsehood,  or  folly,  or  tell-tale-tit, 

Or  politics,  whether  of  Fox  or  Pitt, 

Sermon,  lecture,  or  musical  bit, 

Harp,  piano,  fiddle,  or  kit, 

They  might  as  well,  for  any  such  wish, 

Have  been  butter'd,  done  brown,  and  laid  in  a  dish 

She  was  deaf  as  a  post, — as  said  before — 
And  as  deaf  as  twenty  similes  more, 
Including  the  adder,  that  deafest  of  snakes, 
Which  never  hears  the  coil  it  makes. 

She  was  deaf  as  a  house — which  modern  tricks 
Of  language  would  call  as  deaf  as  bricks — 
For  her  all  human  kind  were  dumb, 
Her  drum,  indeed,  was  so  muffled  a  drum, 
That  none  could  get  a  sound  to  come, 
Unless  the  Devil  who  had  Two  Sticks ! 
She  was  deaf  as  a  stone — say  one  of  the  stones 
Demosthenes  sucked  to  improve  his  tones ; 
And  surely  deafness  no  further  could  reach 
Than  to  be  in  his  mouth  without  hearing  his  speech 

She  was  deaf  as  a  nut — for  nuts,  no  doubt, 

Are  deaf  to  the  grub  that's  hollowing  out — 

As  deaf,  alas !  as  the  dead  and  forgotten — 

(Gray  has  noticed  the  waste  of  breath, 

In  addressing  the  "  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  "), 

Or  the  Felon's  ear  that  was  stufF'd  with  Cotton — 

Or  Charles  the  First,  in  statue  quo  ; 

Or  the  still-born  figures  of  Madame  Tussaud, 

With  their  eyes  of  glass,  and  their  hair  of  flax, 

That  only  stare  whatever  you  "  ax," 

For  their  ears,  you  know,  are  nothing  but  wax. 

She  was  deaf  as  the  ducks  that  swam  in  the  pond, 
And  wouldn't  listen  to  Mrs.  Bond, — 
Part  ii.  4 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


As  deaf  as  any  Frencnrnan  appears, 

When  he  puts  his  shoulders  into  his  ears ; 

And — whatever  the  citizen  tells  his  son — 

As  deaf  as  Gog  and  Magog  at  one  ! 

Or,  still  to  be  a  simile-seeker, 

As  deaf  as  dogs'-ears  to  Enfield's  Speaker  ! 

She  was  deaf  as  any  tradesman's  dummy, 
Or  as  Pharaoh's  mother's  mother's  mummy ; 
Whose  organs,  for  fear  of  our  modern  sceptics, 
Were  plugg'd  with  gums  and  antiseptics. 

She  was  deaf  as  a  nail — that  you  cannot  hammer 
A  meaning  into,  for  all  your  clamor — 
There  never  was  such  a  deaf  old  Gammer ! 

So  formed  to  worry 

Both  Lindley  and  Murray, 
By  having  no  ear  for  Music  or  Grammar  V 

Deaf  to  sounds,  as  a  ship  out  of  soundings, 
Deaf  to  verbs,  and  all  their  compoundings, 
Adjective,  noun,  and  adverb,  and  particle, 
Deaf  to  even  the  definite  article — 
No  verbal  message  was  worth  a  pin, 
Though  you  hired  an  earwig  to  carry  it  in  ! 

In  short,  she  was  twice  as  deaf  as  Deaf  Burke, 
Or  all  the  Deafness  in  Yearsley's  Work, 
Who  in  spite  of  his  skill  in  hardness  of  hearing, 
Boring,  blasting,  and  pioneering, 
To  give  the  dunny  organ  a  clearing, 
Could  never  have  cured  Dame  Eleanor  Spearing. 

Of  course  the  loss  was  a  great  privation, 
For  one  of  her  sex — whatever  her  station — 
And  none  the  less  that  the  Dame  had  a  turn 
For  making  all  families  one  concern, 
And  learning  whatever  there  was  to  learn 
In  the  prattling  tattling  Village  of  Tringham — 


A  TALE  OF  A  TRUMPET. 


As  who  wore  silk  ?  and  who  wore  gingham  ? 

And  what  the  Atkins's  shop  might  bring  'em  ? 

How  the  Smiths  contrived  to  live  ?  and  whether 

The  fourteen  Murphys  all  pigg'd  together  ? 

The  wages  per  week  of  the  Weavers  and  Skinners, 

And  what  they  boil'd  for  their  Sunday  dinners  1 

What  plates  the  Bugsbys  had  on  the  shelf, 

Crockery,  china,  wooden,  or  delf? 

And  if  the  parlor  of  Mrs.  O'Grady 

Had  a  wicked  French  print,  or  Death  and  the  Lady  ? 

Did  Snip  and  his  wife  continue  to  jangle  ? 

Had  Mrs.  Wilkinson  sold  her  mangle  ? 

What  liquor  was  drunk  by  Jones  and  Brown  ? 

And  the  weekly  score  they  ran  up  at  the  Crown  ? 

If  the  Cobbler  could  read,  and  believed  in  the  Pope  ? 

And  how  the  Grubbs  were  off  for  soap  ? 

If  the  Snobbs  had  furnished  their  room  up-stairs, 

And  how  they  managed  for  tables  and  chairs, 

Beds,  and  other  household  affairs, 

Iron,  wooden,  and  Staffordshire  wares ; 

And  if  they  could  muster  a  whole  pair  of  bellows  ? 
In  fact,  she  had  much  of  the  spirit  that  lies 
Perdu  in  a  notable  set  of  Paul  Prys, 

By  courtesy  called  Statistical  Fellows — 
A  prying,  spying,  inquisitive  clan, 
Who  have  gone  upon  much  of  the  self-same  plan, 

Jotting  the  Laboring  Class's  riches ; 
And  after  poking  in  pot  and  pan, 

And  routing  garments  in  want  of  stitches, 
Have  ascertained  that  a  working  man 

Wears  a  pair  and  a  quarter  of  average  breeches ! 

But  this,  alas  !  from  her  loss  of  hearing, 

Was  all  a  sealed  book  to  Dame  Eleanor  Spearing ; 

And  often  her  tears  would  rise  to  their  founts — 
Supposing  a  little  scandal  at  play 
'Twixt  Mrs.  O'Fie  and  Mrs.  Au  Fait — 

That  she  couldn't  audit  the  Gossips'  accounts. 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


'T  is  true,  to  her  cottage  still  they  came, 
And  ate  her  muffins  just  the  same, 
And  drank  the  tea  of  the  widow'd  Dame, 
And  never  swallowed  a  thimble  the  less 
Of  something  the  reader  is  left  to  guess, 
For  all  the  deafness  of  Mrs.  S., 

Who  saw  them  talk,  and  chuckle,  and  cough, 
But  to  see  and  not  share  in  the  social  flow, 
She  might  as  well  have  lived,  you  know, 
In  one  of  the  houses  in  Owen's  Row, 

Near  the  New  River  Head,  with  its  water  cut  off? 

And  yet  the  almond-oil  she  had  tried, 

And  fifty  infallible  things  beside, 

Hot,  and  cold,  and  thick,  and  thin, 

Dabb'd,  and  dribbled,  and  squirted  in : 

But  all  remedies  fail'd  ;  and  though  some  it  was  clear 

(Like  the  brandy  and  salt 

We  now  exalt) 
Had  made  a  noise  in  the  public  ear, 
She  was  just  as  deaf  as  ever,  poor  dear! 

At  last — one  very  fine  day  in  June — 
Suppose  her  sitting, 
Busily  knitting, 
And  humming  she  did  n't  quite  know  what  tune ; 

For  nothing  she  heard  but  a  sort  of  a  whizz, 
Which,  unless  the  sound  of  the  circulation, 
Or  of  Thoughts  in  the  Process  of  fabrication, 
By  a  Spinning-Jennyish  operation, 

It 's  hard  to  say  what  buzzing  it  is, 
However,  except  that  ghost  of  a  sound, 
She  sat  in  a  silence  most  profound — 
The  cat  was  purring  about  the  :  at, 
But  her  Mistress  heard  no  more  of  that 
Than  if  it  had  been  a  boatswain's  cat, 
And  as  for  the  clock  the  moments  nicking, 
The  Dame  only  gave  it  credit  for  ticking. 
The  bark  of  her  dog  she  did  not  catch ; 


A  TALE  OF  A  TRUMPET. 


Nor  yet  the  click  of  the  lifted  latch  ; 

Nor  yet  the  creak  of  the  opening  door  ; 

Nor  yet  the  fall  of  a  foot  on  the  floor — 

But  she  saw  the  shadow  that  crept  on  her  gown 

And  turn'd  its  skirt  of  a  darker  brown. 

And  lo  !  a  man  !  a  Pedlar  ?  ay,  marry, 

With  the  little  back-shop  that  such  tradesmen  carry, 

Stock'd  with  brooches,  ribbons,  and  rings, 

Spectacles,  razors,  and  other  odd  things, 

For  lad  and  lass,  as  Autolycus  sings  ; 

A  chapman  for  goodness  and  cheapness  of  ware, 

Held  a  fair  dealer  enough  at  a  fair, 

But  deem'd  a  piratical  sort  of  invader 

By  him  we  dub  the  "  regular  trader," 

Who  luring  the  passengers  in  as  they  pass 

By  lamps,  gay  pannels,  and  mouldings  of  brass, 

And  windows  with  only  one  huge  pane  of  glass, 

And  his  name  in  gilt  characters,  German  or  Roman, 

If  he  is  n't  a  Pedlar,  at  least  is  a  Showman  ! 

However,  in  the  stranger  came, 

And,  the  moment  he  met  the  eyes  of  the  Dame, 

Threw  her  as  knowing  a  nod  as  though 

He  had  known  her  fifty  long  years  ago  ; 

And  presto  !  before  she  could  utter  "  Jack  " — 

Much  less  "  Robinson  " — open'd  his  pack — 

And  then  from  amongst  his  portable  gear, 
With  even  more  than  a  Pedlar's  tact, — 
(Slick  himself  might  have  envied  the  act) — 
Before  she  had  time  to  be  deaf,  in  fact — 

Popped  a  Trumpet  into  her  ear. 

"  There,  Ma'am !  try  it ! 

You  need  n't  buy  it — 
The  last  New  Patent — and  nothing  comes  nigh  it 
For  affording  the  Deaf,  at  little  expense, 
The  sense  of  hearing,  and  hearing  of  sense  ! 
A  Real  Blessing — and  no  mistake, 


PROSE  .\SD  VERSE. 


Invented  for  poor  Humanity's  sake  ;  • 
For  what  can  be  a  greater  privation 
Than  playing  Dumby  to  all  creation, 
And  only  looking  at  conversation — 
Great  Philosophers  talking  like  Platos, 
And  members  of  Parliament  moral  as  Catos, 
And  your  ears  as  dull  as  waxy  potatoes ! 
Not  to  name  the  mischievous  quizzers, 
Sharp  as  knives,  but  double  as  scissors, 
Who  get  you  to  answer  quite  by  guess 
Yes  for  No,  and  No  for  Yes." 
("  That's  very  true,"  says  Dame  Eleanor  S.) 

"  Try  it  again  !  No  harm  in  trying — 
Pm  sure  you'll  find  it  worth  your  buying, 
A  little  practice — that  is  all — 
And  you  '11  hear  a  whisper,  however  small, 
Through  an  Act  of  Parliament  party-wall, — 
Every  syllable  clear  as  day, 
And  even  what  people  are  going  to  say — 
I  would  n't  tell  a  lie,  I  would  n't, 

But  my  Trumpets  have  heard  what  Solomon's  could  n't 
And  as  for  Scott  he  promises  fine, 
But  can  he  warrant  his  horns  like  mine 

Never  to  hear  what  a  Lady  should  n't — 
Only  a  guinea — and  can't  take  less." 
("  That 's  very  dear,"  says  Dame  Eleanor  S.) 

"  Dear ! — Oh  dear,  to  call  it  dear  ! 
Why  it  is  n't  a  horn  you  buy,  but  an  ear ; 
Only  think,  and  you'll  find  on  reflection 
You  're  bargaining,  Ma'am,  for  the  Voice  of  Affection  ; 
For  the  language  of  Wisdom,  and  Virtue,  and  Truth, 
*  And  the  sweet  little  innocent  prattle  of  youth  ; 
Not  to  mention  the  striking  of  clocks — 
Cackle  of  hens — crowing  of  cocks — 
Lowing  of  cow,  and  bull,  and  ox — 
Bleating  of  pretty  pastoral  flocks — 
Murmur  of  waterfall  over  the  rocks — 


A  TALE  Of  A  TRUMPET. 


Every  sound  that  Echo  mocks — 

Vocals,  fiddles,  and  musical-box — 

And  zounds !  to  call  such  a  concert  dear ! 

But  I  must  n't  swear  with  my  horn  in  your  ea/. 

Why  in  buying  that  trumpet  you  buy  all  those 

That  Harper,  or  any  trumpeter,  blows 

At  the  Queen's  Levees  or  the  Lord  Mayor's  Shows, 

At  least  as  far  as  the  music  goes, 

Including  the  wonderful  lively  sound 

Of  the  Guards'  key-bugles  all  the  year  round 

Come — suppose  we  call  it  a  pound  I 

Come,"  said  the  talkative  Man  of  the  Pack, 

"  Before  I  put  my  box  on  my  back, 

For  this  elegant,  useful  Conductor  of  Sound, 

Come — suppose  we  call  it  a  pound  ! 

"  Only  a  pound  !  it's  only  the  price 
Of  hearing  a  Concert  once  or  twice, 

It 's  only  the  fee 

You  might  give  Mr.  C, 
And  after  all  not  hear  his  advice, 
But  common  prudence  would  bid  you  stump  it ; 

For,  not  to  enlarge, 

It 's  the  regular  charge 
At  a  Fancy  Fair  for  a  penny  trumpet. 
Lord  !  what 's  a  pound  to  the  blessing  of  hearing  !" 
("  A  pound 's  a  pound,"  said  Dame  Eleanor  Spearing. 

"  Try  it  again  !  no  harm  in  trying ! 

A  pound 's  a  pound  there 's  no  denying ; 

But  think  what  thousands  and  thousands  of  pounds 

We  pay  for  nothing  but  hearing  sounds : 

Sounds  of  Equity,  Justice  and  Law, 

Parliamentary  jabber  and  jaw, 

Pious  cant  and  moral  saw, 

Hocus-pocus,  and  Nong-tong-paw, 

And  empty  sounds  not  worth  a  straw  ; 

Why  it  costs  a  guinea,  as  I'm  a  sinner, 


40 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


To  hear  the  sounds  at  a  Public  Dinner ! 
One  pound  one  thrown  into  the  puddle, 
To  listen  to  Fiddle,  Faddle,  and  Fuddle  ! 
Not  to  forget  the  sounds  we  buy 
From  those  who  sell  their  sounds  so  high, 
That,  unless  the  Managers  pitch  it  strong, 
To  get  a  Signora  to  warble  a  song 

You  must  fork  out  the  blunt  with  a  haymaker's  prong ! 

"  It 's  not  the  thing  for  me — I  know  it, 

To  crack  my  own  Trumpet  up  and  blow  it ; 

But  it  is  the  best,  and  time  will  show  it. 

There  was  Mrs.  F. 

So  very  deaf, 
That  she  might  have  worn  a  perc.ussion  cap, 
And  been  knock'd  on  the  head  without  hearing  it  snap, 
Well,  I  sold  her  a  horn,  and  the  very  next  day 
She  heard  from  her  husband  at  Botany  Bay ! 
Come — eighteen  shillings — that 's  very  low, 
You  '11  save  the  money  as  shillings  go, 
And  I  never  knew  so  bad  a  lot, 
By  hearing  whether  they  ring  or  not ! 
Eighteen  shillings  !  it 's  worth  the  price, 
Supposing  you  're  delicate-minded  and  nice, 
To  have  the  medical  man  of  your  choice, 
Instead  of  the  one  with  the  strongest  voice — 
Who  comes  and  asks  you  how  's  your  liver, 
And  where  you  ache,  and  whether  you  shiver, 
And  as  to  your  nerves  so  apt  to  quiver, 
As  if  he  was  hailing  a  boat  on  the  river ! 
And  then,  with  a  shout,  like  Pat  in  a  riot, 
Tells  you  to  keep  yourself  perfectly  quiet ! 

"  Or  a  tradesman  comes — as  tradesmen  will — 
Short  and  crusty  about  his  bill, 

Of  patience,  indeed,  a  perfect  scorner, 
And  because  you  're  deaf  and  unable  to  pay, 
Shouts  whatever  he  has  to  say, 
In  a  vulgar  voice  that  goes  over  the  way, 


A  TALE  OF  A  TRUMPET. 


Down  the  street  and  round  the  corner, 
Come — speak  your  mind — it 's  1  No  or  Yes'  " 
("  I've  half  a  mind,"  said  Dame  Eleanor  S.) 

"  Try  it  again — no  harm  in  trying, 

Of  course  you  hear  me,  as  easy  as  lying ; 

No  pain  at  all,  like  a  surgical  trick, 

To  make  you  squall,  and  struggle,  and  kick, 

Like  Juno,  or  Rose, 

Whose  ear  undergoes 
Such  horrid  tugs  at  membrane  and  gristle, 
For  being  as  deaf  as  yourself  to  a  whistle  ! 

"  You  may  go  to  surgical  chaps  if  you  choose, 
Who  will  blow  up  your  tubes  like  copper  flues, 
Or  cut  your  tonsils  right  away, 

As  you 'd  shell  out  your  almonds  for  Christmas-day  ; 
And  after  all  a  matter  of  doubt, 
Whether  you  ever  would  hear  the  shout 
Of  the  little  blackguards  that  bawl  about, 
1  There  you  go  with  your  tonsils  out !' 

Why  I  knew  a  deaf  Welshman  who  came  from  Glamorg 
On  purpose  to  try  a  surgical  spell, 
And  paid  a  guinea,  and  might  as  well 

Have  called  a  monkey  into  his  organ  ! 
For  the  Aurist  only  took  a  mug, 
And  pour'd  in  his  ear  some  acoustical  drug, 
That  instead  of  curing  deafen'd  him  rather, 
As  Hamlet's  uncle  served  Hamlet's  father ! 
That 's  the  way  with  your  surgical  gentry  f 

And  happy  your  luck 

If  you  don't  get  stuck 
Through  your  liver  and  lights  at  a  royal  entry, 
Because  you  never  answer'd  the  sentry  ! 
Try  it  again,  dear  Madam,  try  it ! 
Many  would  sell  their  beds  to  buy  it. 
I  warrant  you  often  wake  up  in  the  night, 
Ready  to  shake  to  a  jelly  with  fright, 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


And  up  you  must  get  to  strike  a  light, 
And  down  you  go,  in  you  know  what, 
Whether  the  weather  is  chilly  or  not, — 
That 's  the  way  a  cold  is  got, — 
To  see  if  you  heard  a  noise  or  not ! 

"  Why,  bless  you,  a  woman  with  organs  like  yours 
Is  hardly  safe  to  step  out  of  doors ! 
Just  fancy  a  horse  that  comes  full  pelt, 
But  as  quiet  as  if  he  was  1  shod  with  felt/ 
Till  he  rushes  against  you  with  all  his  force, 
And  then  I  needn't  describe  of  course, 
While  he  kicks  you  about  without  remorse, 
How  awkward  it  is  to  be  groomed  by  a  horse, 
Or  a  bullock  comes,  as  mad  as  King  Lear, 
And  you  never  dream  that  the  brute  is  near, 
Till  he  pokes  his  horn  right  into  your  ear, 
Whether  you  like  the  thing  or  lump  it, — 
And  all  for  want  of  buying  a  trumpet ! 

H I 'm  not  a  female  to  fret  and  vex, 
But  if  I  belonged  to  the  sensitive  sex, 
Exposed  to  all  sorts  of  indelicate  sounds, 
I  wouldn't  be  deaf  for  a  thousand  pounds. 

Lord  !  only  think  of  chucking  a  copper 
To  Jack  or  Bob  with  a  timber  limb, 
Who  looks  as  if  he  was  singing  a  hymn, 

Instead  of  a  song  that 's  very  improper  ! 
Or  just  suppose  in  a  public  place 
You  see  a  great  fellow  a-pulling  a  face, 
With  his  staring  eyes  and  his  mouth  like  an  O, — 
And  how  is  a  poor  deaf  lady  to  know, — 
The  lower  orders  are  up  to  such  games — 
If  he 's  calling  '  Green  Peas,'  or  calling  her  names  V 
("  They  're  tenpence  a  peck  !"  said  the  deafest  of  Dames. 

"  'Tis  strange  what  very  strong  advising, 
By  word  of  mouth,  or  advertising, 


A  TALE  OF  A  TRUMPET. 


By  chalking  on  walls,  or  placarding  on  vans, 

With  fifty  other  different  plans, 

The  very  high  pressure,  in  fact,  of  pressing, 

It  needs  to  persuade  one  to  purchase  a  blessing 

Whether  the  Soothing  American  Syrup, 

A  safety  Hat,  or  a  Safety  Stirrup, — 

Infallible  Pills  for  the  human  frame, 

Or  Rowland's  O-don't-o  (an  ominous  name) ! 

A  Doudney's  suit  which  the  shape  so  hits 

That  it  beats  all  others  into  jits  ; 

A  Mechi's  razor  for  beards  unshorn, 

Or  a  Ghost-of-a- Whisper- Catching  Horn  \ 

"  Try  it  again,  Ma'am,  only  try  !" 
Was  still  the  voluble  Pedlar's  cry ; 
"  It's  a  great  privation,  there's  no  dispute, 
To  live  like  the  dumb  unsociable  brute, 
And  to  hear  no  more  of  the  pro  and  con, 
And  how  Society's  going  on, 
Than  Mumbo  Jumbo  or  Prester  John, 
And  all  for  want  of  this  sine  qud  non  ; 

Whereas,  with  a  horn  that  never  offends, 
You  may  join  the  genteelest  party  that  is, 
And  enjoy  all  the  scandal,  and  gossip,  and  quiz 

And  be  certain  to  hear  of  your  abser_„  friends 
Not  that  elegant  ladies,  in  fact, 
In  genteel  society  ever  detract, 
Or  lend  a  brush  when  a  friend  is  black'd, — 
At  least  as  a  mere  malicious  act, — 
But  only  talk  scandal  for  fear  some  fool 
Should  think  they  were  bred  at  charity  school. 

Or,  maybe,  you  like  a  little  flirtation,  • 
Which  even  the  most  Don  Juanish  rake 
Would  surely  object  to  undertake 

At  the  same  high  pitch  as  an  altercation. 
It 's  not  for  me,  of  course,  to  judge 
How  much  a  Deaf  Lady  ought  to  begrudge  ; 
But  half-a-guinea  seems  no  great  matter — 


44 


PROSE  AMD  VERSE. 


Letting  alone  more  rational  patter — 

Only  to  hear  a  parrot  chatter  : 

Not  to  mention  that  feather'd  wit, 

The  Starling,  who  speaks  when  his  tongue  is  slit ; 

The  Pies  and  Jays  that  utter  words, 

And  other  Dicky  Gossips  of  birds, 

That  talk  with  as  much  good  sense  and  decorum 

As  many  Beaks  who  belong  to  the  quorum. 

"  Try  it — buy  it — say  ten  and  six, 
The  lowest  price  a  miser  could  fix  : 
I  don't  pretend  with  horns  of  mine, 
Like  some  in  the  advertising  line, 
To  {  magnify  sounds  '  on  such  marvellous  scales, 
That  the  sounds  of  a  cod  seem  as  big  as  a  whale's  ; 
But  popular  rumors,  right  or  wrong, — 
Charity  Sermons,  short  or  long, — 
Lecture,  speech,  concerto,  or  song, 
All  noises  and  voices,  feeble  and  strong, 
From  the  hum  of  a  gnat  to  the  clash  of  a  gong, 
This  tube  will  deliver  distinct  and  clear ; 
Or,  supposing  by  chance 
You  wish  to  dance, 
Why,  it 's  putting  a  Horn-pipe  into  your  ear  ! 
Try  it — buy  it ! 
Buy  it — try  it ! 
The  last  New  Patent,  and  nothing  comes  nigh  it, 

For  guiding  sounds  to  proper  tunnel : 
Only  try  till  the  end  of  June, 
And  if  you  and  the  Trumpet  are  out  of  tune, 

I  '11  turn  it  gratis  into  a  Funnel !" 

In  short,  the  pedlar  so  beset  her, — 

Lord  Bacon  couldn't  have  gammon'd  her  bettei, — 

With  flatteries  plump  and  indirect, 

And  plied  his  tongue  with  such  effect, — 

A  tongue  that  could  almost  have  butter'd  a  crumpet,— 

The  deaf  Old  Woman  bought  the  Trumpet. 


A  TALE  OF  A  TRUMPET. 


***** 

*  *  *  *  * 

The  Pedlar  was  gone.    With  the  Horn's  assistance, 
She  heard  his  steps  die  away  in  the  distance  ; 
And  then  she  heard  the  tick  of  the  clock, 
The  purring  of  puss,  and  the  snoring  of  Shock ; 
And  she  purposely  dropped  a  pin  that  was  little, 
And  heard  it  fall  as  plain  as  a  skittle  ! 

'Twas  a  wonderful  Horn,  to  be  but  just ! 

Nor  meant  to  gather  dust,  must,  and  rust ; 

So  in  half  a  jiffy,  or  less  than  that, 

In  her  scarlet  cloak  and  her  steeple-hat, 

Like  old  Dame  Trot,  but  without  her  Cat, 

The  Gossip  was  hunting  all  Tringham  thorough, 

As  if  she  meant  to  canvass  the  borough, 

Trumpet  in  hand,  or  up  to  the  cavity  ; — 
And,  sure,  had  the  horn  been  one  of  those 
The  wild  Rhinoceros  wears  on  his  nose, 

It  couldn't  have  ripp'd  up  more  depravity  ! 

Depravity  !  mercy  shield  her  ears  ! 
'Twas  plain  enough  that  her  village  peers 

In  the  ways  of  vice  were  no  raw  beginners ; 
For  whenever  she  raised  the  tube  to  her  drum, 
Such  sounds  were  transmitted  as  only  come 

From  the  very  Brass  Band  of  human  sinners  ! 
Ribald  jest  and  blasphemous  curse 
(Bunyan  never  vented  worse), 
With  all  those  weeds,  not  flowers,  of  speech 
Which  the  Seven  Dialecticians  teach  ; 
Filthy  Conjunctions,  and  Dissolute  Nouns, 
And  Particles  pick'd  from  the  kennels  of  towns, 
With  Irregular  Verbs  for  irregular  jobs, 
Chiefly  active  in  rows  and  mobs, 
Picking  Possessive  Pronouns'  fobs, 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


And  Interjections  as  bad  as  a  blight, 

Or  an  Eastern  blast,  to  the  blood  and  the  sight ; 

Fanciful  phrases  for  crime  and  sin, 

And  smacking  of  vulgar  lips  where  Gin, 

Garlic,  Tobacco,  and  offals  go  in — 

A  jargon  so  truly  adapted,  in  fact, 

To  each  thievish,  obscene,  and  ferocious  act, 

So  fit  for  the  brute  with  the  human  shape, 

Savage  Baboon,  or  libidinous  Ape, 

From  their  ugly  mouths  it  will  certainly  come 

Should  they  ever  get  weary  of  shamming  dumb  1 

Alas  !  for  the  voice  of  Virtue  and  Truth, 
And  the  sweet  little  innocent  prattle  of  youth  ! 
The  smallest  urchin  whose  tongue  could  tang, 
Shock'd  the  Dame  with  a  volley  of  slang, 
Fit  for  Fagin's  juvenile  gang  ; 
While  the  charity  chap, 
With  his  muffin-cap, 

His  crimson  coat,  and  his  badge  so  garish, 
Playing  at  dumps,  or  pitch  in  the  hole, 
Cursed  his  eyes,  limbs,  body,  and  so-ul, 

As  if  they  didn't  belong  to  the  Parish  ! 

'Twas  awful  to  hear,  as  she  went  along, 
The  wicked  words  of  the  popular  song  ; 

Or  supposing  she  listen'd — as  gossips  will — 
At  a  door  ajar,  or  a  window  agape, 
To  catch  the  sounds  they  allow'd  to  escape, 

Those  sounds  belong'd  to  Depravity  still ! 
The  dark  allusion,  or  bolder  brag 
Of  the  dexterous  "  dodge,"  and  the  lots  of  "  swag," 
The  plunder'd  house — or  the  stolen  nag — 
The  blazing  rick,  or  the  darker  crime 
That  quench'd  the  spark  before  its  time — 
The  wanton  speech  of  the  wife  immoral — 
The  noise  of  drunken  or  deadly  quarrel, — 
With  savage  menaces,  which  threaten'd  the  life, 


A  TALE  OF  A  TRUMPET. 


■11 


Till  the  heart  seem'd  merely  a  strop  "  for  the  knife  ;" 

The  human  liver,  no  better  than  that 

Which  is  sliced  and  thrown  to  an  old  woman's  cat ; 

And  the  head,  so  useful  for  shaking  and  nodding, 
To  be  punch'd  into  holes,  like  "  a  shocking  bad  hat " 

That  is  only  fit  to  be  punch'd  into  wadding  ! 

In  short,  wherever  she  turn'd  the  horn, 
To  the  highly  bred,  or  the  lowly  born, 
The  working  man  who  look'd  over  the  hedge, 
Or  the  mother  nursing  her  infant  pledge, 

The  sober  Quaker,  averse  to  quarrels, 
Or  the  Governess  pacing  the  village  through, 
With  her  twelve  Young  Ladies,  two  and  two- 
Looking,  as  such  young  ladies  do, 

Truss'd  by  Decorum  and  stufPd  with  morals— 
Whether  she  listen'd  to  Hob  or  Bob, 
Nob  or  Snob, 
The  Squire  on  his  cob, 
Or  Trudge  and  his  ass  at  a  tinkering  job, 
To  the  Saint  who  expounded  at  "  Little  Zion  n — 
Or  the  "  Sinner  who  kept  the  Golden  Lion  " — 
The  man  teetotally  wean'd  from  liquor — 
The  Beadle,  the  Clerk,  or  the  Reverend  Vicar — 
Nay,  the  very  Pie  in  its  cage  of  wicker — 
She  gather'd  such  meanings,  double  or  single, 
That  like  the  bell 
With  muffins  to  sell, 
Her  ear  was  kept  in  a  constant  tingle  ! 

But  this  was  naught  to  the  tales  of  shame, 
The  constant  runnings  of  evil  fame, 
Foul,  and  dirty,  and  black  as  ink, 
That  her  ancient  cronies,  with  nod  and  wink, 
Pour'd  in  her  horn  like  slops  in  a  sink  : 

While  sitting  in  conclave,  as  gossips  do, 
With  their  Hyson  or  Howqua,  black  or  green, 
And  not  a  little  of  feline  spleen 


48 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Lapp'd  up  in  "  Catty  packages,"  too, 
To  give  a  zest  to  the  sipping  and  supping  ; 
For  still  by  some  invisible  tether, 
Scandal  and  Tea  are  link'd  together, 

As  surely  as  Scarification  and  Cupping  ; 
Yet  never  since  Scandal  drank  Bohea — 
Or  sloe,  or  whatever  it  happen'd  to  be, 
For  some  grocerly  thieves 
Turn  over  new  leaves 
Without  much  amending  their  lives  or  their  tea — 
No,  never  since  cup  was  fill'd  or  stirr'd 
Were  such  vile  and  horrible  anecdotes  heard, 
As  blacken'd  their  neighbors,  of  either  gender, 
Especially  that  which  is  call'd  the  Tender, 
But  instead  of  the  softness  we  fancy  therewith, 
As  harden'd  in  vice  as  the  vice  of  a  smith. 

Women  !  the  wretches  !  had  soil'd  and  marr'd 

Whatever  to  womanly  nature  belongs  ; 
For  the  marriage  tie  they  had  no  regard, 
Nay,  sped  their  mates  to  the  sexton's  yard 

(Like  Madame  Laffarge,  who  with  poisonous  pinches 

Kept  cutting  off  her  L  by  inches), 
And  as  for  drinking,  they  drank  so  hard 

That  they  drank  their  flat-irons,  pokers,  and  tongs  ! 

The  men — they  fought  and  gambled  at  fairs ; 

And  poach'd — and  didn't  respect  grey  hairs — 

Stole  linen,  money,  plate,  poultry,  and  corses ; 

And  broke  in  houses  as  well  as  horses  ; 

Unfolded  folds  to  kill  their  own  mutton, 

And  would  their  own  mothers  and  wives  for  a  button — 

But  not  to  repeat  the  deeds  they  did, 

Backsliding  in  spite  of  all  moral  skid, 

If  all  were  true  that  fell  from  the  tongue, 

There  was  not  a  villager,  old  or  young, 

But  deserved  to  be  whipp'd,  imprison'd,  or  hung, 

Or  sent  on  those  travels  which  nobody  hurries 

To  publish  at  Colburn's,  or  Longman's,  or  Murray's. 


A  TALE  OF  A  TRUMPET. 


Meanwhile  the  Trumpet,  con  amore, 
Transmitted  each  vile  diabolical  story ; 
And  gave  the  least  whisper  of  slips  and  falls, 
As  that  Gallery  does  in  the  Dome  of  St.  Paul's, 
Which,  as  all  the  world  knows,  by  practice  or  print, 
Is  famous  for  making  the  most  of  a  hint. 
Not  a  murmur  of  shame, 
Or  buzz  of  blame, 
Not  a  flying  report  that  flew  at  a  name, 
Not  a  plausible  gloss,  or  significant  note, 
Not  a  word  in  the  scandalous  circles  afloat 
Of  a  beam  in  the  eye  or  diminutive  mote, 
But  vortex-like  that  tube  of  tin 
Suck'd  the  censorious  particle  in  ; 

And,  truth  to  tell,  for  as  willing  an  organ 
As  ever  listen'd  to  serpent's  hiss, 
Nor  took  the  viperous  sound  amiss, 

On  the  snaky  head  of  an  ancient  Gorgon  ! 

The  Dame,  it  is  true,  would  mutter  "  shocking  \" 
And  give  her  head  a  sorrowful  rocking, 
And  make  a  clucking  with  palate  and  tongue, 
Like  the  call  of  Partlett  to  gather  her  young, 
A  sound,  when  human,  that  always  proclaims 
At  least  a  thousand  pities  and  shames, 

But  still  the  darker  the  tale  of  sin, 
Like  certain  folks  when  calamities  burst, 
Who  find  a  comfort  in  "  hearing  the  worst," 

The  farther  she  poked  the  Trumpet  in. 
Nay,  worse,  whatever  she  heard,  she  spread 

East  and  West,  and  North  and  South, 
Like  the  ball  which,  according  to  Captain  Z 
Went  in  at  his  ear,  and  came  out  at  his  mouth. 

What  wonder  between  the  horn  and  the  Dame, 
Such  mischief  was  made  wherever  they  came, 
That  the  Parish  of  Tringham  was  all  in  a  flame  ! 
For  although  it  requires  such  loud  discharges, 
Pakt  ii.  5 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Such  peals  of  thunder  as  rumbled  at  Lear, 
To  turn  the  smallest  of  table-beer, 
A  little  whisper  breathed  into  the  ear 

Will  sour  a  temper  "  as  sour  as  varges." 
In  fact  such  very  ill  blood  there  grew, 

From  this  private  circulation  of  stories, 
That  the  nearest  neighbors  the  village  through, 
Look'd  at  each  other  as  yellow  and  blue 
As  any  electioneering  crew 

Wearing  the  colors  of  Whigs  and  Tories. 

Ah  !  well  the  Poet  said,  in  sooth, 

That  whispering  tongues  can  poison  Truth, — 

Yea,  like  a  dose  of  oxalic  acid, 

Wrench  and  convulse  poor  Peace,  the  placid, 

And  rack  dear  Love  with  internal  fuel, 

Like  arsenic  pastry,  or  what  is  as  cruel, 

Sugar  of  lead,  that  sweetens  gruel, 

At  least  such  torments  began  to  wring  'em 

From  the  very  morn 

When  that  mischievous  Horn 
Caught  the  whisper  of  tongues  in  Tringham. 

j 

The  Social  Clubs  dissolved  in  huffs, 

And  the  Sons  of  Harmony  came  to  cuffs, 

While  feuds  arose,  and  family  quarrels, 

That  discomposed  the  mechanics  of  morals, 

For  screws  were  loose  between  brother  and  brother, 

While  sisters  fasten'd  their  nails  on  each  other. 

Such  wrangles,  and  jangles,  and  miff,  and  tiff, 

And  spar,  and  jar — and  breezes  as  stiff 

As  ever  upset  a  friendship  or  skiff! 

The  plighted  Lovers,  who  used  to  walk, 

Refused  to  meet,  and  declined  to  talk  ; 

And  wish'd  for  two  moons  to  reflect  the  sun, 

That  they  mightn't  look  together  on  one  ; 

While  wedded  affection  ran  so  low, 

That  the  oldest  John  Anderson  snubbed  his  Jo — 


A  TALE  OF  A  TRUMPET. 


And  instead  of  the  toddle  adown  the  hill, 

Hand  in  hand, 

As  the  song  has  planned, 
Scratch'd  her,  penniless,  out  of  his  will ! 

In  short,  to  describe  what  came  to  pass 

In  a  true,  though  somewhat  theatrical  way, 

Instead  of  "  Love  in  a  Village  " — alas  ! 

The  piece  they  perform'd  was  "  The  Devil  to  Pay 

However,  as  secrets  are  brought  to  light, 
And  mischief  comes  home  like  chickens  at  night ; 
And  rivers  are  track'd  throughout  their  course, 
And  forgeries  traced  to  their  proper  source ; — 

And  the  sow  that  ought 

By  the  ear  is  caught, — 
And  the  sin  to  the  sinful  door  is  brought ; 
And  the  cat  at  last  escapes  from  the  bag — 
And  the  saddle  is  placed  on  the  proper  nag  ; 
And  the  fog  blows  off,  and  the  key  is  found — 
And  the  faulty  scent  is  pick'd  out  by  the  hound — 
And  the  fact  turns  up  like  a  worm  from  the  ground — 
And  the  matter  gets  wind  to  waft  it  about ; 
And  a  hint  goes  abroad,  and  the  murder  is  out — 
And  the  riddle  is  guess'd — and  the  puzzle  is  known— 
So  the  truth  was  sniff 'd,  and  the  Trumpet  was  Mown 

******* 

'Tis  a  day  in  November — a  day  of  fog — ■ 

But  the  Tringham  people  are  all  agog ; 
Fathers,  Mothers,  and  Mothers'  Sons, — 
With  sticks,  and  staves,  and  swords,  and  guns, — 

As  if  in  pursuit  of  a  rabid  dog; 

But  their  voices — raised  to  the  highest  pitch — 

Declare  that  the  game  is  "  a  Witch  ! — a  Witch  !" 

Over  the  Green,  and  along  by  the  George — 
Past  the  Stocks,  and  the  Church,  and  the  Forge, 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


And  round  the  Pound,  and  skirting  the  Pond, 

Till  they  come  to  the  whitewash'd  cottage  beyond, 

And  there  at  the  door  they  muster  and  cluster, 

And  thump,  and  kick,  and  bellow,  and  bluster — 

Enough  to  put  Old  Nick  in  a  fluster  ! 

A  noise,  indeed,  so  loud  and  long, 

And  mix'd  with  expressions  so  very  strong, 

That  supposing,  according  to  popular  fame, 

"  Wise  Woman  "  and  Witch  to  be  the  same, 

No  Hag  with  a  broom  would  unwisely  stop, 

But  up  and  away  through  the  chimney-top ; 

Whereas,  the  moment  they  burst  the  door, 

Planted  fast  on  her  sanded  floor, 

With  her  Trumpet  up  to  her  organ  of  hearing, 

Lo  and  behold  ! — Dame  Eleanor  Spearing  ! 

Oh  !  then  arises  the  fearful  shout — 
Bawl'd  and  scream'd,  and  bandied  about — 
"  Seize  her  ! — Drag  the  old  Jezebel  out !" 
While  the  Beadle — the  foremost  of  all  the  ban&> 
Snatches  the  Horn  from  her  trembling  hand — 
And  after  a  pause  of  doubt  and  fear, 
Puts  it  up  to  his  sharpest  ear. 

"  Now  silence — silence — one  and  all !" 
For  the  Clerk  is  quoting  from  Holy  Paul  I 

But  before  he  rehearses 

A  couple  of  verses 
The  Beadle  lets  the  Trumpet  fall ; 
For  instead  of  the  words  so  pious  and  humble, 
He  hears  a  supernatural  grumble. 

Enough,  enough  !  and  more  than  enough  ; 

Twenty  impatient  hands  and  rough, 

By  arm,  and  leg,  and  neck,  and  scruff, 

Apron,  'kerchief,  gown  of  stuff — 

Cap,  and  pinner,  sleeve,  and  cuff — 

Are  clutching  the  Witch  wherever  they  can, 


A  TALE  OF  A  TRUMPET. 


With  the  spite  of  Woman  and  fury  of  Man  ; 
And  then — but  first  they  kill  her  cat, 
And  murder  her  dog  on  the  very  mat — 
And  crush  the  Infernal  Trumpet  flat ; — 
And  then  thiy  hurry  her  through  the  door 
She  never,  never,  will  enter  more ! 

Away  !  away  !  down  the  dusty  lane 

They  pull  her,  and  haul  her,  with  might  and  main 

And  happy  the  hawbuck,  Tom  or  Harry, 

Dandy,  or  Sandy,  Jerry,  or  Larry, 

Who  happens  to  get  "  a  leg  to  carry  !" 

And  happy  the  foot  that  can  give  her  a  kick, 

And  happy  the  hand  that  can  find  a  brick — 

And  happy  the  fingers  that  hold  a  stick — 

Knife  to  cut,  or  pin  to  prick — 

And  happy  the  Boy  who  can  lend  her  a  lick , — 

Nay,  happy  the  Urchin — Charity-bred, 

Who  can  shy  very  nigh  to  her  wicked  old  head ! 

Alas  !  to  think  how  people's  creeds 
Are  contradicted  by  people's  deeds ! 

But  though  the  wishes  that  Witches  utter 
Can  play  the  most  diabolical  rigs — 
Send  styes  in  the  eye — and  measle  the  pigs — 

Grease  horses'  heels — and  spoil  the  butter ; 
Smut  and  mildew  the  corn  on  the  stalk — 
And  turn  new  milk  to  water  and  chalk, — 
Blight  apples — and  give  the  chickens  the  pip — 
And  cramp  the  stomach — and  cripple  the  hip — 
And  waste  the  body — and  addle  the  eggs — 
And  give  a  baby  bandy  legs  ; 
Though  in  common  belief  a  Witch's  curse 
Involves  all  these  horrible  things,  and  worse — 
As  ignorant  bumpkins  all  profess, 
No  Bumpkin  makes  a  poke  the  less 
At  the  back  or  ribs  of  old  Eleanor  S. ! 

As  if  she  were  only  a  sack  of  barley  ; 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


Or  fvives  her  credit  for  greater  might 
Than  the  Powers  of  Darkness  confer  at  night 
On  that  other  old  woman,  the  parish  Charley! 

Ay,  now's  the  time  for  a  Witch  to  call 

On  her  Imps  and  Sucklings  one  and  all — 

Newes,  Pyewacket,  or  Peck  in  the  Crown 

(As  Matthew  Hopkins  has  handed  them  down;, 

Dick,  and  Willet,  and  Sugar-and  Sack, 

Greedy  Grizel,  Jarmara.the  Black, 

Vinegar  Tom  and  the  rest  of  the  pack — 

Ay,  now's  the  nick  for  her  friend  Old  Harry 

To  come  "  with  his  tail "  like  the  bold  Glengarry, 

And  drive  her  foes  from  their  savage  job 

As  a  mad  Black  Bullock  would  scatter  a  mob  :— 

But  no  such  matter  is  down  in  the  bond ; 
And  spite  of  her  cries  that  never  cease, 
But  scare  the  ducks  and  astonish  the  geese, 

The  Dame  is  dragg'd  to  the  fatal  pond  ! 

And  now  they  come  to  the  water's  brim — 
And  in  they  bundle  her — sink  or  swim  ; 
Though  it 's  twenty  to  one  that  the  wretch  must  d 
With  twenty  sticks  to  hold  her  down  ; 
Including  the  help  to  the  self-same  end, 
Which  a  travelling  Pedlar  stops  to  lend. 
A  Pedlar  ! — Yes  ! — The  same  ! — the  same  f 
Who  sold  the  Horn  to  the  drowning  Dame ! 
And  now  is  foremost  amid  the  stir, 
With  a  token  only  reveal'd  to  her; 
A  token  that  makes  her  shudder  and  shriek, 
And  point  with  her  ringer,  and  strive  to  speak — 
But  before  she  can  utter  the  name  of  the  Devil, 
Her  head  is  under  the  water-level ! 

MORAL. 

There  are  folks  about  town — to  name  no  names — 
Who  much  resemble  that  deafest  of  Dames ; 


A  TALE  OF  A  TRUMPET. 


55 


And  over  their  tea,  and  muffins,  and  crumpets, 
Circulate  many  a  scandalous  word, 
And  whisper  tales  they  could  only  have  heard 

Through  some  such  Diabolical  Trumpets ! 


Note. 

The  following  curious  passage  is  quoted  for  the  bei^ent  of 
such  Readers  as  are  afflicted,  like  Dame  Spearing,  with  Deaf- 
ness, and  one  of  its  concomitants,  a  singing  or  ringing  in  the 
head.  The  extract  is  taken  from  "Quid  Pro  Quo;  or,  A  The- 
ory of  Compensations.  By  P.  S."  (perhaps  Peter  Shard),  folio 
edition. 

"  Soe  tenderly  kind  and  gratious  is  Nature,  our  Mother,  that 
She  seldom  or  never  puts  upon  us  any  Grievaunce  without 
making  Us  some  Amends,  which,  if  not  a  full  and  perfect 
Equivalent,  is  yet  a  great  Solace  or  Salve  to  the  Sore.  As  is 
notably  displaid  in  the  Case  of  such  of  our  Fellow  Creatures  as 
undergoe  the  Loss  of  Heering,  and  are  thereby  deprived  of  the 
Comfort  and  Entertainment  of  Natural  Sounds.  In  lew  where- 
of the  Deaf  Man,  as  testified  by  mine  own  Experience,  is  re- 
galed with  an  irward  Musick  that  is  not  vouchsafed  unto  a 
Person  who  hath  the  compleet  Usage  of  his  Ears.  For  note, 
that  the  selfsame  Condition  of  Boddy  which  is  most  apt  to  bring 
on  a  Surdity, — namely,  a  general  Relaxing  of  the  delicate  and 
subtile  Fibres  of  the  Human  Nerves,  and  mainly  such  as  be- 
long and  propinque  to  the  Auricular  Organ,  this  very  Unbracing 
which  silences  the  Tympanum,  or  drum,  is  the  most  instrumental 
Cause  in  producing  a  Consort  in  the  Head.  And,  in  particular, 
that  affection  which  the  Physitians  have  called  Tinnitus,  by 
reason  of  its  Resemblance  to  a  Ring  of  Bells.  The  Absence 
of  which,  as  a  National  Musick,  would  be  a  sore  Loss  and  Dis- 
comfort to  any  Native  of  the  Low  Countryes,  where  the  Steeples 
and  Church-Towers  with  their  Carillons  maintain  an  allmost 
endlesse  Tingle  ;  seeing  that  before  one  quarterly  Chime  of  the 
Cloke  hath  well  ended;  another  must  by  Time's  Command  strike 


56 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


up  its  Tune.  On  which  Account,  together  with  its  manye 
waterish  Swamps  and  Marshes,  the  Land  of  Flandres  is  said  by 
the  Wits  to  be  Ringing  Wet.  Such  campanulary  Noises  would 
alsoe  be  heavily  mist  and  lamented  by  the  Inhabitants  of  that 
Ringing  Island  described  in  Rabelais  his  Works,  as  a  Place  con- 
stantly filled  with  a  Corybantick  Jingle  Jangle  of  great,  middle- 
sized,  and  little  Bells  :  wherewith  the  People  seem  to  be  as  much 
charmed  as  a  Swarm  of  Bees  with  the  Clanking  of  brazen  Ket- 
tles and  Pans.  And  which  Ringing  Island  cannot  of  a  surety 
be  Barbadoes,  as  certain  Authors  have  supposed,  but  rather  our 
own  tintinnabulary  Island  of  Brittain,  where  formerly  a  Saxon 
could  not  soe  much  as  quench  a  Fire  or  a  Candle  but  to  the 
tune  of  a  Bell.  And  even  to  this  day,  next  to  the  Mother 
Tongue,  the  one  mostly  used  is  in  a  Mouth  of  Mettal,  and  withal 
so  loosely  hung,  that  it  must  needs  wag  at  all  Times  and  on  all 
Topicks.  For  your  English  Man  is  a  mighty  Ringer,  and  be- 
sides furnishing  Bells  to  a  Bellfry,  doth  hang  them  at  the  Head 
of  his  Horse,  and  at  the  Neck  of  his  Sheep — on  the  Cap  of  his 
Fool,  and  on  the  Heels  of  his  Hawk.  And  truly  I  have  known 
more  than  one  amongst  my  Country  Men,  who  would  undertake 
more  Travel,  and  Cost  besides,  to  hear  a  Peal  of  Grandsires, 
than  they  would  bestow  to  look  upon  a  Generation  of  Grandchild- 
ren. But  alack !  all  these  Bells  with  the  huge  Muscovite,  and 
Great  Tom  of  Lincoln  to  boot,  be  but  as  Dumb  Bells  to  the 
Deaf  Man :  wherefore,  as  I  said,  Nature  kindly  steps  in  with  a 
Compensation,  to  wit  a  Tinnitus,  and  converts  his  own  Head 
into  a  Bellfry,  whence  he  hath  Peals  enow,  and  what  is  more 
without  having  to  pay  the  Ringers." 


BOZ  IN  AMERICA. 


57 


BOZ  IN  AMERICA. 


Since  the  voyages  of  Columbus  in  search  of  the  New  W.rld, 
and  of  Raleigh  in  quest  of  El  Dorado,  no  visit  to  America  has 
excited  so  much  interest  and  conjecture  as  that  of  the  author  of 
"  Oliver  Twist."  The  enterprise  was  understood  to  be  a  sort  of 
Literary  Expedition,  for  profit  as  well  as  pleasure:  and  many  and 
strange  were  the  speculations  of  the  reading  public  as  to  the 
nature  and  value  of  the  treasures  which  would  be  brought  home 
by  Dickens  on  his  return.  Some  persons  expected  a  philosophi- 
cal comparison  of  Washington's  Republic  with  that  of  Plato  ; 
others  anticipated  a  Report  on  the  Banking  System  and  Com- 
mercial Statistics  of  the  United  States  ;  and  some  few,  perhaps, 
looked  for  a  Pamphlet  on  International  Copyright.  The  general 
notion,  however,  was  that  the  Transatlantic  acquisitions  of  Boz 
would  transpire  in  the  shape  of  a  Tale  of  American  Life  and 
Manners — and  moreover  that  it  would  appear  by  monthly  instal- 
ments in  green  covers,  and  illustrated  by  some  artist  with  the 
name  of  Phiz,  or  Whiz,  or  Quiz. 

So  strong  indeed  was  this  impression,  that  certain  blue-stock- 
inged prophetesses  even  predicted  a  new  Avatar  of  the  celebrated 
Mr.  Pickwick  in  slippers  and  loose  trousers,  a  nankeen  jacket, 
and  a  straw-hat,  as  large  as  an  umbrella.  Sam  Weller  was  to 
re-appear  as  his  help,  instead  of  a  footman,  still  full  of  droll 
sayings,  but  in  a  slang  more  akin  to  that  of  his  namesake,  the 
Clock-maker :  while  Weller,  senior,  was  to  revive  on  the  box  of 
a  Boston  long  stage, — only  calling  himself  Jonathan,  instead  of 
Tony,  and  spelling  it  with  a  G.  A  Virginian  widow  Bardell 
was  a  matter  of  course — and  some  visionaries  even  foresaw  a 


56 


PROSE  AND  yERSE. 


slave-owning  Mr.  Snodgrass,  a  coon- hunting  Mr.  Winkle,  a  wide- 
.  awake  Joe,  and  a  forest-clearing  Bob  Sawyer.* 

The  fallacy  of  these  guesses  and  calculations  was  first  proved 
by  the  announcement  of  "  American  Notes  for  General  Circu- 
lation," a  title  that  at  once  dissipated  every  dream  of  a  Clock- 
case,  or  a  Club,  and  cut  off  all  chance  of  a  tale.  Encouraged  by 
the  technical  terms  which  seemingly  had  some  reference  to  their 
9\vn  speculations,  the  money-mongers  still  held  on  faintly  by  their 
former  opinions : — but  the  Romanticists  were  in  despair,  and 
reluctantly  abandoned  all  hopes  of  a  Pennsylvanian  Nicholas 
Nickleby  affectionately  darning  his  mother — a  new  Yorkshire 
Mr.  Squeers  flogging  creation — a  black  Smike — a  brown  Kate, 
and  a  Bostonian  Newman  Noggs,  alternately  swallowing  a  cock- 
tail and  a  cobbler. f 

Still  there  remained  enough  in  the  announcement  of  American 
Notes,  by  C.  Dickens,  to  strop  the  public  curiosity  to  a  keen 
edge.  Numerous  had  been  the  writers  on  the  land  of  the  stars 
and  stripes — a  host  of  travelled  ladies  and  gentlemen,  liberals  and 
illiberals,  utilitarians  and  inutilitarians — human  bowls  of  every 
bias  had  trundled  over  the  United  States  without  hitting,  or  in 
the  opinion  of  the  natives,  even  coming  near  the  jack.  The 
Royalist,  missing  the  accustomed  honors  of  Kings  and  Queens, 
saw  nothing  but  a  republican  pack  of  knaves  ;  the  High  Church- 
man, finding  no  established  church,  declared  that  there  was  no 
religion — the  aristocrat  swore  that  all  was  low  and  vulgar,  be- 
cause there  were  no  servants  in  drab  turned  up  with  blue,  or  in 
green  turned  down  with  crimson — the  radical  was  shocked  by  the 
caucus,  the  enthralment  of  public  opinion,  and  the  timidity  of  the 
preachers — the  metaphysical  philosopher  was  disgusted  with  the 
preponderance  of  the  real  over  the  ideal — the  adventurer  took 
fright  at  Lynch  law,  and  the  saintly  abolitionist  saw  nothing  but 
black  angels  and  white  devils.  An  impartial  account  of  America 
and  the  Americans  was  still  to  seek,  and  accordingly  the  reading 
public  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  looked  forward  with  anxiety 

*  With  the  wishes  of  these  admirers  of  Boz',  we  can  in  some  degree  sym- 
pathize :  for  what  could  be  a  greater  treat  in  the  reading  way  than  the 
perplexities  of  a  squatting  Mr.  Pickwick,  or  a  settling  Mrs.  Nickleby  ? 

f  Not  a  horse  and  shoe-maker,  but  two  sorts  of  American  drink 


BOZ  IN  AMERICA.  59 

and  eagerness  for  the  opinions  of  a  writer  who  had  proved  by  a 
series  of  wholesome  fictions  that  his  heart  was  in  the  right  place, 
that  his  head  was  not  in  the  wrong  one,  and  that  his  hand  was  a 
good  hand  at  description.  One  thing  at  least  was  certain,  that 
nothing  would  be  set  down  in  malice  ;  for,  compared  with  modern 
authors  in  general,  Boz  is  remarkably  free  from  sectarian  or  anti- 
social prejudices,  and  as  to  politics  he  seems  to  have  taken  the 
long  pledge  against  party  spirit.  And  doubtless  one  of  the  causes 
of  his  vast  popularity  has  been  the  social  and  genial  tone  of  his 
works, — showing  that  he  feels  and  acts  on  the  true  principle  of 
the  "  homo  sum  " — a  sum  too  generally  worked  as  one  in  long 
Division  instead  of  Addition. 

In  the  mean  time  the  book,  after  long  budding  in  advertise- 
ment, has  burst  into  a  full  leaf,  and  however  disconcerting  to 
those  persons  who  had  looked  for  something  quite  different,  will 
bring  no  disappointment  to  such  as  can  be  luxuriously  content 
with  good  sense,  good  feeling,  good  fun,  and  good  writing.  In 
the  very  first  half-dozen  of  pages  the  reader  will  find  an  example 
of  that  cheerful  practical  philosophy  which  makes  the  best  of 
the  worst — that  happy  healthy  spirit  which,  instead  of  morbidly 
resenting  the  deception  of  a  too  flattering  artist,  who  had  litho- 
graphed the  ship's  accommodations,  joined  with  him  in  converting 
a  floating  cup-board  into  a  state-room,  and  a  cabin  "  like  a  hearse 
with  windows  in  it,"  into  a  handsome  saloon.  But  we  must  skip 
the  voyage,  though  pleasantly  and  graphically  described,  and  at 
once  land  Boz  in  Boston,  where,  suffering  from  that  true  ground 
swell  which  annoys  the  newly  landed,  he  goes  rolling  along  the 
pitching  passages  of  the  Tremont  hotel  "with  an  involuntary 
imitation  of  the  gait  of  Mr.  T.  P.  Cooke  in  a  new  nautical  melo- 
drama." 

Now,  Boston  is  the  modern  Athens  of  America.  Its  inhabit- 
ants, many  of  them  educated  in  the  neighboring  university  of 
Cambridge,  are  decidedly  of  a  literary  turn,  and  of  course  were 
not  indifferent  to  the  arrival  of  so  distinguished  an  author  in 
their  city.  Modesty,  however,  prevents  him  from  recording  in 
print  the  popular  effervescence — the  only  fact  which  transpires 
is,  that  the  first  day  being  Sunday  he  was  offered  pews  and 
sittings  in  churches  and  chapels,  "  enough  for  a  score  or  two  of 


GO 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


grown  up  families."  These  courtesies,  one  and  all,  the  traveller 
is  obliged  to  decline  for  want  of  a  change  of  dress, — a  fortunate 
circumstance  so  far,  that  whilst  the  curious  but  serious  Boston- 
ians  were  congregated  elsewhere,  he  was  enabled,  accompanied 
by  only  a  score  or  so  of  little  boys  and  girls  of  no  particular 
persuasion,  to  take  a  survey  and  a  clever  sketch  (p.  59)  of  the 
city.  On  Monday,  the  case  was  evidently  altered  ;  for,  after  a 
visit  to  the  State-House  (p.  61),  he  was  compelled  to  take  refuge 
from  the  mob,  in  a  place  where  he  could  not  be  made  a  sight  or 
a  show  of — the  Massachusetts  Asylum  for  the  Blind.  Here  he 
^aw  the  interesting  Laura  Bridgman,  a  poor  little  girl,  blind, 
deaf,  dumb,  destitute  of  the  sense  of  smell,  and  almost  of  that 
of  taste,  yet,  thanks  to  a  judicious  and  humane  education,  not 
altogether  dark  within,  nor  hapless  without.  The  following 
picture  is  deeply  touching  ;  a  mist  comes  over  the  clear  eye  in 
reading  it. 

*  Like  other  inmates  of  the  house  she  had  a  green  ribbon  bound  over  her 
eyelids.  A  doll  she  had  dressed  lay  near  upon  the  ground.  I  took  it  up 
and  saw  that  she  had  made  a  green  fillet  such  as  she  wore  herself,  and 
fastened  it  about  its  mimic  eyes." 

But  the  mob  has  dispersed ;  at  least  the  bulk  of  it,  for  not 
counting  the  children,  there  remain  but  fourteen  autograph- 
hunters,  six  phrenologists,  four  portrait-painters,  seven  book- 
sellers,  five  editors,  and  nineteen  ladies,  with  handsomely-bound 
books  in  their  hands  or  under  their  arms,  on  the  steps  and  about 
the  door  of  the  Blind  Asylum.  And  there  they  may  be  still,  for 
somehow  Boz  has  given  them  the  slip,  and  in  the  turning  of  a 
leaf  is  at  South  Boston,  in  the  state  hospital  for  the  insane — not 
however  as  a  patient — for  he  was  once  deranged  by  proxy  in 
some  other  person's  intellects, — but  witnessing  and  admiring  the 
rational  and  humane  mode  of  treatment  which,  as  at  our  own 
Han  well  Asylum,  has  replaced  the  brutal,  brainless  practice  of 
the  good  old  times  when  insanity  was  treated  as  a  criminal 
offence, — the  tortures  abolished  for  felons  were  retained  for 
lunatics,  and  their  poor  over-heated  brains  had  as  much  chance 
of  cooling  as  under  the  Plombieres  of  the  Inquisition.  Let  the 
reader  who  has  a  mother  turn  to  page  176  for  a  peep  at  a  whim- 


BOZ  IN  AMERICA. 


61 


sical  old  lady,  in  the  Hartford  establishment,  and  then  let  him 
think  that  some  fifty  years  ago  the  poor  dear  old  soul  would  have 
been  fettered,  perhaps  scourged,  for  only  fancying  herself  an 
antediluvian  !  But  to  lighten  a  sad  subject,  let  us  smile  at  a 
characteristic  interview  between  Boz  and  an  Ophelia,  in  the 
same  house. 

"  As  we  were  passing  through  a  gallery  on  our  way  out,  a  well-dressed 
lady,  of  quiet  and  composed  manners,  came  up,  and  proffering  a  slip  of 
paper  and  a  pen,  begged  that  I  would  oblige  her  with  an  autograph.  I 
complied,  and  we  parted.  I  hope  she  is  not  mad  (quoth  the  visitor)  for  I 
think  I  remember  having  had  a  few  interviews  like  that  with  ladies 
out  of  doors." 

Huzza !  whoo-oop  !  A  mob  has  gathered  again,  and  before 
he  has  gone  a  page,  Boz  is  obliged  to  get  into  the  Boston  House 
of  Industry,  thence  into  the  adjoining  Orphan  Institution,  and 
from  that,  but  not  mortally  crushed,  into  the  Hospital,  all  highly 
creditable  establishments,  except  in  one  iron  feature,  "the  eternal, 
accursed,  suffocating,  redhot  demon  of  a  stove,  whose  breath 
would  blight  the  purest  air  under  heaven  :"  and  so  it  does — 
parching  the  lungs  with  baked  air.  We  have  had  some  expe- 
rience of  the  nuisance  in  Germany  ;  and  never  saw  it  lighted 
without  wishing  for  a  washerwoman,  exorbitant  in  her  charges, 
to  blow  it  up.  But  we  must  push  on,  or  the  observed  of  all 
observers  will  be  divided  from  us  by  a  square  mile  of  the  Lowell 
Factory  Millicents,  "all  dressed  out  with  parasols  and  silk- 
stockings,"  not  white  or  flesh-color,  but  blue,  for  these  young 
women  are  decidedly  literary,  and  besides  subscribing  to  the  cir- 
culating libraries,  actually  get  up  a  periodical  of  their  own ! 

"  The  large  class  of  readers,  startled  by  these  facts,  will  exclaim  with 
one  voice,  '  How  very  preposterous  !'  On  my  deferentially  inquiring  why, 
they  will  answer,  '  These  things  are  above  their  station.'  In  reply  to  that 
observation  I  would  beg  leave  to  ask  what  that  station  is." 

What  ? — why,  according  to  some  of  our  moral  stationers,  the 
proper  station  for  such  people  is  the  station-house,  to  which  actors, 
singers,  and  dancers  have  so  often  been  consigned  in  this  country 
for  acting,  singing,  and  dancing  upon  too  moderate  terms.  But 
better  times  seem  to  dawn — the  licensing  Justices  begin  to  out- 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


vote  the  Injustices,  and  perhaps  some  day  we  shall  have  Playing 
and  Dancing  as  well  as  Singing  for  the  Million.  Why  not  ? 
Why  should  not  the  cheerful,  amusing  treatment  which  has  proved 
so  beneficial  to  the  poor  mad  people,  be  equally  advantageous  to 
the  poor  sane  ones  ? 

But  to  return  to  the  Lowell  lasses. — Pshaw  !  cries  a  literary 
fine  gentleman,  carelessly  penning  a  sonnet,  like  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverly's  ancestor,  with  his  glove  on,  "they  are  only  a  set  of 
scribbling  millers."  No  such  thing.  In  the  opinion  of  a  very 
competent  judge  they  write  as  well  as  most  of  our  gifted  crea- 
tures and  talented  pens,  and  their  "  Offering "  may  compare 
advantageously  with  a  great  many  of  the  English  Annuals.  An 
opinion  not  hastily  formed,  be  it  noted,  but  after  the  reading  of 
"  400  solid  pages  from  the  beginning  to  the  end."  No  wonder 
the  gratified  Authoresses  escorted  the  Critic — as  of  course  they 
did,  to  the  Worcester  railway,  which  on  the  5th  of  February, 
1842,  was  beset  of  course  by  an  unusual  crowd,  behaving,  of 
course,  as  another  mob  did  afterwards  at  Baltimore,  but  which 
Boz  evidently  mistook  for  only  an  every-day  ebullition  of  na- 
tional curiosity. 

"  Being  rather  early,  those  men  and  boys  who  happened  to  have  nothing 
particular  to  do,  and  were  curious  in  foreigners,  came  (according  to  custom) 
round  the  carriage  in  which  I  sat,  let  down  all  the  windows  ;  thrust  in  their 
heads  and  shoulders  ;  hooked  themselves  on  conveniently  by  their  elbows  ; 
and  fell  to  comparing  notes  on  the  subject  of  my  personal  appearance,  with 
as  much  indifference  as  if  I  were  a  stuffed  figure.  I  never  gained  so  much 
uncompromising  information  with  reference  to  my  own  nose  and  eyes,  the 
various  impressions  wrought  by  my  mouth  and  chin  on  different  minds, 
and  how  my  head  looks  when  it's  viewed  from  behind,  as  on  these  occasions. 
Some  gentlemen  were  only  satisfied  by  exercising  their  sense  of  touch; 
and  the  boys  (who  are  surprisingly  precocious  in  America)  were  seldom 
satisfied,  even  by  that,  but  would  return  to  the  charge  over  and  over  again. 
Many  a  budding  President  has  walked  into  my  room  with  his  cap  on  his 
head  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  stared  at  me  for  two  whole  hours  : 
occasionally  refreshing  himself  with  a  tweak  at  his  nose,  or  a  draught  from 
the  water-jug,  or  by  walking  to  the  windows  and  inviting  other  boys  in  tiie 
street  below,  to  corne  up  and  do  likewise:  crying,  'Here  he  is! — Come 
on! — Bring  all  your  brothers  !'  with  other  hospitable  entreaties  of  that 
nature." 

Here  is  another  speculator  on  the  Phenomenon,  who  evidently 


BOZ  IN  AMERICA.  63 

could  not  make  up  his  mind  whether  the  hairy  covering  of  Boz 
was  that  of  a  real,  or  of  a  metaphorical  Lion,  p.  56. 

"  Finding  that  nothing  would  satisfy  him,  I  evaded  his  questions  after  the 
first  score  or  two,  and  in  particular  pleaded  ignorance  respecting  the  fur 
whereof  my  coat  was  made.  I  am  unable  to  say  whether  this  was  the 
reason,  but  that  coat  fascinated  him  ever  afterwards ;  he  usually  kept  close 
behind  me  when  I  walked,  and  moved  as  I  moved,  that  he  might  look  at  it 
the  better  ;  and  he  frequently  dived  into  narrow  places  after  me.  at  the  risk 
of  his  life,  that  he  might  have  the  satisfaction  of  passing  his  hand  up  the 
back  and  rubbing  it  the  wrong  way." 

From  Worcester,  still  travelling  like  a  Highland  chieftain 
with  his  tail  on,  or  a  fugitive  with  a  tribe  of  Indians  on  his  trail, 
the  illustrious  stranger  railed  on  to  Springfield  ;  but  there  his 
voluntary  followers  were  fixed.  The  Connecticut  river  being 
luckily  unfrozen,  Boz  embarked,  designedly,  as  it  appears,  in  a 
steam-boat  of  about  "  half-a-pony  power,"  and  altogether  so 
diminutive,  that  the  few  passengers  the  craft  would  carry  "all 
kept  in  the  middle  of  the  deck,  lest  the  boat  should  unexpectedly 
tip  over."  But  some  buzz  about  Boz  had  certainly  got  before 
him,  for  at  a  small  town  on  the  way,  the  tiny  steamer,  or  rather 
one  of  its  passengers,  was  saluted  by  a  gun  considerably  bigger 
than  the  funnel  !  (p.  174.)  At  Hartford,  however,  thanks  to  the 
Deaf  and  Dumb  School,  the  common  Gaol,  the  State  Prison,  and 
the  Lunatic  Asylum,  the  Dickens  enjoyed  four  quiet  days,  and 
then  embarked  for  New  York  in  the  New  York, — 

"  Infinitely  less  like  a  steam-boat  than  a  huge  floating  bath.  I  could 
nardly  persuade  myself  indeed,  but  that  the  bathing  establishment  off 
Westminster  Bridge,  which  I  had  left  a  baby,  had  suddenly  grown  to  an 
enormous  size ;  run  away  from  home ;  and  set  up  in  foreign  parts  for  a 
steamer." 

At  New  York,  in  the  Broadway,  an  ordinary  man  may  find 
elbow-room  ;  but  Boz  is  no  ordinary  man,  and  accordingly  for  a 
little  seclusion  is  glad  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  famous  Prison  called 
the  Tombs.  But  the  mob,  the  male  part  at  least,  again  separates, 
and  the  gaol  visitor  ventures  forth,  as  it  appears,  a  little  pre- 
maturely. 


'<  Once  more  in  Broadway !    Here  are  the  sarr  e  ladies  in  bright  colors, 


64  PROSE  AND  VERSE. 

walking  to  and  fro,  in  pairs  and  singly;  yonder  the  very  same  light  blue 
parasol  which  passed  and  repassed  the  hotel  window  twenty  times  while 
we  were  sitting  there." 

Heavens !  what  a  prospect  for  a  modest  and  a  married  man ! 
Popularity  is  no  doubt  pleasant,  and  Boz  is  extremely  popular, 
but  popularity  in  America  is  no  joke.  It  is  not  down  in  the  book, 
but  we  happen  to  know,  that  between  8  and  10  a.  m.,  it  was  as 
much  as  Dickens  could  do,  wi  h  Mrs.  Dickens's  assistance,  to 
write  the  required  autographs.  It  was  more  than  he  could  do, 
between  ten  and  twelve,  to  even  look  at  the  hospitable  albums 
that  were  willing  to  take  the  stranger  in.  And  now,  not  to  forget 
the  blue  ladies  in  the  Broadway,  and  the  sulphur-colored  parasol, 
if  he  should  happen  to  be  recognized  by  yonder  group  of  admi- 
rers and  well-wishers,  he  will  have,  before  one  could  spell  tem- 
perance, to  swallow  sangaree,  ginsling,  a  mint  julep,  a  cocktail, 
a  sherry  cobbler,  and  a  timber  doodle  !  In  such  a  case  the 
only  resource  is  in  flight,  and  like  a  hunted  lion,  rushing  into  a 
difficult  and  dangerous  jungle,  Boz  plunges  at  once  into  the  most 
inaccessible  back-slums  of  New  York. 

"  This  is  the  place  :  these  narrow  ways,  diverging  to  the  right  and  left, 
and  reeking  everywhere  with  dirt  and  filth.  Such  lives  as  are  led  here, 
bear  the  same  fruits  here  as  elsewhere.  The  coarse  and  bloated  faces  at  the 
doors,  have  counterparts  at  home,  and  all  the  wide  world  over.  Debauchery 
has  made  the  very  houses  prematurely  old.  See  how  the  rotten  beams  are 
tumbling  down,  and  how  the  patched  and  broken  windows  seem  to  scowl 
dimly,  like  eyes  that  have  been  hurt  in  drunken  frays.  Many  of  these  pigs 
live  here.  Do  they  ever  wonder  why  their  masters  walk  upright  in  lieu  of 
going  on  all  fours  ?  and  why  they  talk  instead  of  grunting  ?" 

But  what  are  "  these  pigs  V  Why,  the  very  swine  whence, 
under  the  New  Tariff,  we  are  to  derive  American  pork  and 
bacon  ;  and  accordingly  Boz  considerately  furnishes  his  country- 
men with  a  sketch  of  the  breed. 

"  They  are  the  city  scavengers,  these  pigs.  Ugly  brutes  they  are  ;  having 
for  the  most  part,  scanty,  brown  backs,  like  the  lids  of  old  horse-hair  trunks, 
spotted  with  unwholesome  black  blotches.  They  have  long  gaunt  legs,  too, 
and  such  peaked  snouts,  that  if  one  of  them  could  be  persuaded  to  sit  for 
his  portrait,  nobody  would  recognize  it  for  a  pig's  likeness." 

No — for  they  have  no  choppers.    We  know  the  animals  well, 


BOZ  IN  AMERICA.  65 

or  at  least  their  German  cousins  and  Belgian  brothers-in-law ; 
and  moreover,  have  tasted  the  bacon,  which  only  wants  fat  to  be 
streaky.  But  here  is  a  livelier  sample  of  a  pig,  who  seems  to 
have  had  a  notion  of  Lynch  Law. 

"  As  we  were  riding  along  this  morning,  I  observed  a  little  incident  be- 
tween two  youthful  pigs,  which  were  so  very  human  as  to  be  inexpressibly 
comical  and  grotesque  at  the  time,  though  I  dare  say  in  telling,  it  is  tame 
enough. 

"  One  young  gentleman  (a  very  delicate  porker  with  several  straws  sticking 
about  his  nose,  betokening  recent  investigations  in  a  dunghill)  was  walking 
deliberately  on,  profoundly  thinking,  when  suddenly  his  brother,  who  was 
lying  in  a  miry  hole  unseen  by  him,  rose  up  immediately  before  his  startled 
eyes,  ghostly  with  damp  mud.  Never  was  a  pig's  whole  mass  of  blood  so 
turned.  He  started  back  at  least  three  feet,  gazed  for  a  moment,  and  then 
shot  off  as  hard  as  ever  he  could  go :  his  excessively  little  tail  vibrating 
with  speed  and  terror  like  a  distracted  pendulum.  But  before  he  had  gone 
very  far,  he  began  to  reason  with  himself  as  to  the  nature  of  this  frightful 
appearance;  and  as  he  reasoned,  he  relaxed  his  speed  by  gradual  degrees, 
until  at  last  he  stopped,  and  faced  about.  There  was  his  brother  with  the 
mud  upon  him  glazing  in  the  sun,  yet  staring  out  of  the  very  same  hole,  per- 
fectly amazed  at  his  proceedings.  He  was  no  sooner  assured  of  this,  and 
he  assured  himself  so  carefully,  that  one  may  almost  say  he  shaded  his  eyes 
with  his  hand  to  see  the  better,  than  he  came  back  at  a  round  trot,  pounced 
upon  him,  and  summarily  took  off  a  piece  of  his  tail,  as  a  caution  to  him  to 
be  careful  what  he  was  about  for  the  future,  and  never  to  play  tricks  with 
his  family  any  more." 

But  as  usual,  Boz  was  not  allowed  exclusively  to  please  the 
pigs ;  and  being  hunted  all  along  shore,  he  was  obliged,  like  a 
deer  fort  couru,  to  take  to  the  water,  and  was  carried  to  the 
Long  Island  Jail,  by  a  boat  belonging  to  the  establishment,  and 
rowed  by  a  crew  of  prisoners  M  dressed  in  a  striped  uniform  of 
black  and  buff,  in  which  they  looked  like  faded  tigers."  Not  a 
bad  retinue,  by  the  way,  for  a  black  and  white  Lion.  In  the 
Gaol,  the  Madhouse,  and  the  Refuge  for  the  Destitute,  he  again 
found  a  temporary  repose,  but  even  these  retreats  becoming  at 
last  uncomfortably  crowded,  he  set  off  by  railway  for  Philadelphia, 
with  a  longing  eye,  of  course,  to  its  Solitary  Prison.  But  that  he 
did  not  enjoy  much  wnpopularity  on  this  journey,  we  may  guess, 
when  the  travelling  in  the  same  carriage  with  Boz  was  too  much 

Part  ii.  6 


66 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


for  even  Foxite  taciturnity,  and  a  Friend  made  such  a  desperate 
effort,  as  follows,  to  become  an  Acquaintance : 

"  A  mild  and  modest  young  Quaker,  who  opened  the  discourse  by  in- 
forming me,  in  a  grave  whisper,  that  his  grandfather  was  the  inventor  of 
cold-drawn  castor-oil.  I  mention  the  circumstance  here,  thinking  it  pro- 
bable that  this  is  the  first  occasion  on  which  the  valuable  medicine  in 
question  was  ever  used  as  a  conversational  aperient." 

The  genuine  drab  color  of  this  anecdote  is  as  true  in  tone  as 
the  tints  of  Claude,  and  gives  a  renewed  faith  in  the  artist.  The 
following  picture  seems  equally  faithful,  though  reminding  us  of 
some  of  the  Author's  fancy  pieces.  Look  at  it,  gentle  reader, 
and  then  cry  with  us,  "  God  forgive  the  inventor  of  the  system 
of  burying  criminals  alive  in  stone  coffins  !" 

"  The  first  man  I  saw  was  seated  at  his  loom  at  work.  He  had  been 
there  six  years,  and  was  to  remain,  I  think,  three  more.  He  had  been 
convicted  as  a  receiver  of  stolen  goods,  but  denied  his  guilt,  and  said  he  had 
been  hardly  dealt  by.    It  was  his  second  offence. 

"  He  stopped  his  work  when  we  went  in,  took  off  his  spectacles,  and  an- 
swered freely  to  everything  that  was  said  to  him,  but  always  with  a  strange 
kind  of  pause  first,  and  in  a  low  thoughtful  voice.  He  wore  a  paper  hat  of 
his  own  making,  and  was  pleased  to  have  it  noticed  and  commended.  He 
had  very  ingeniously  manufactured  a  sort  of  Dutch  clock  from  some  disre- 
garded odds  and  ends  ;  and  his  vinegar-bottle  served  for  the  pendulum. 
Seeing  me  interested  in  this  contrivance,  he  looked  up  at  it  with  a  good 
deal  of  pride,  and  said  that  he  had  been  thinking  of  improving  it,  and  that 
he  hoped  the  hammer  and  a  little  piece  of  Droken  glass  beside"  it  '  would 
play  music  ere  long.' 

"  He  smiled  as  I  looked  at  these  contrivances  to  while  away  the  time : 
but  when  I  looked  from  them  to  him,  I  saw  that  his  lip  trembled,  and  could 
have  counted  the  beating  of  his  heart.  I  forgot  how  it  came  about,  but 
some  allusion  was  made  to  his  having  a  wife.  He  shook  his  head  at  the 
word,  turned  aside,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  '  But  you  are  resigned  now  !'  said  one  of  the  gentlemen,  after  a  short 
pause,  during  which  he  had  resumed  his  former  manner. 

"  »  Oh  yes,  oh  yes  !    I  am  resigned  to  it.' 

"  *  And  are  a  better  man,  you  think  ?' 

"  4  Well,  I  hope  so  :  I'm  sure  I  may  be.' 

"  '  And  time  goes  pretty  quickly  ?' 

**  '  Time  is  very  long,  gentlemen,  between  these  four  walls  !' 
"  He  gazed  about  him — Heaven  only  knows  how  wearily  !  as  he  said 
these  words ;  and  in  the  act  of  doing  so,  fell  into  a  strange  stare,  as  if  he 


BOZ  IN  AMERICA. 


67 


had  forgotten  something.  A  moment  afterwards  he  sighed  heavily,  put  on 
his  spectacles,  and  resumed  his  work." 

******** 

"  On  the  haggard  face  of  every  man  among  these  prisoners  the  same 
expression  sat.  I  know  not  what  to  liken  it  to.  It  had  something  of  that 
strained  attention  which  we  see  upon  the  faces  of  the  blind  and  deaf,  mingled 
with  a  kind  of  horror,  as  though  they  had  all  been  secretly  terrified.  In 
every  little  chamber  that  I  entered,  and  at  every  grate  through  which  I 
looked,  I  seemed  to  see  the  same  appalling  countenance.  It  lives  in  my 
me.nory  with  the  fascination  of  a  remarkable  picture.  Parade  before  my 
eyes  a  hundred  men,  with  one  of  them  newly  released  from  this  solitary 
suffering,  and  I  would  point  him  out." 

******** 

"  That  it  makes  the  senses  dull,  and  by  degrees  impairs  the  bodily  facul- 
ties, I  am  quite  sure.  I  remarked  to  those  who  were  with  me  in  this  very 
establishment  at  Philadelphia,  that  the  criminals  who  had  been  there  long 
were  deaf." 

Of  course  they  were ;  and  all  more  or  less  advanced  towards 
a  state  (to  adapt  a  new  word)  of  idiosyncrasy.  Again  we  say, 
Heaven  forgive  the  inventors  of  such  a  course  of  slow  mental 
torture !  who  could  reduce  a  fellow-creature  to  become  such  a 
clock-maker  !  The  truth  is,  no  Solitary  System  is  consonant 
with  humanity  or  Christianity.  Whenever  there  shall  be  persons 
too  good  for  this  world,  they  may  have  a  right  to  thus  excom- 
municate those  who  are  too  bad  for  it — but  as  Porson  said,  not 
till  then  ! 

Nevertheless  to  a  gentleman  mobbed,  elbowed,  jammed,  stared 
at,  and  shouted  after,  a  few  hours  in  such  a  quiet  hermitage 
would  be  a  relief:  nay,  Boz  tells  us  that  it  was  once  found  en- 
durable for  a  much  longer  term,  by  a  voluntary  prisoner,  who, 
unable  to  resist  the  bottle,  applied,  as  a  favor,  for  a  solitary  cell. 
The  Board  refused,  and  recommended  total  abstinence  and  the 
long  pledge,  but  the  toper,  to  make  sure  of  temperance,  en- 
treated to  be  put  in  the  stone  jug. 

"  He  came  again,  and  again,  and  again,  and  was  so  very  earnest  and  im- 
portunate, that  at  last  they  took  counsel  together,  and  said,  'He  will  cer- 
tainly qualify  himself  for  admission,  if  we  reject  him  any  more.  Let  us 
Bhut  him  up.  He  will  soon  be  glad  to  go  away,  and  then  we  shall  get  rid 
of  him.'  So  they  made  him  sign  a  statement,  which  would  prevent  his 
ever  sustaining  an  action  for  false  imprisonment,  to  the  effect  that  his  in- 


68 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


carceration  was  voluntary,  and  of  his  own  seeking ;  they  requested  him  to 
take  notice  that  the  officer  in  attendance  had  orders  to  release  him  at  any 
hour  of  the  day  or  night,  when  he  might  knock  upon  his  door  for  that 
purpose ;  but  desired  him  to  understand  that,  once  going  out,  he  would  not 
be  admitted  any  more.  These  conditions  agreed  upon,  and  he  still  remain- 
ing in  the  same  mind,  he  was  conducted  to  the  prison,  and  shut  up  in  one 
of  the  cells. 

"  In  this  cell,  the  man  who  had  not  the  firmness  to  leave  a  glass  of  liquor 
standing  untasted  on  a  table  before  him — in  this  cell,  in  solitary  confine- 
ment, and  working  every  day  at  his  trade  of  shoe-making,  this  man  remained 
nearly  two  years.  His  health  beginning  to  fail  at  the  expiration  of  that 
time,  the  surgeon  recommended  that  he  should  work  occasionally  in  the 
garden ;  and  as  he  liked  the  notion  very  much,  he  went  about  this  new  oc- 
cupation with  great  cheerfulness. 

"  He  was  digging  here  one  summer-day  very  industriously,  when  the 
wicket  in  the  outer  gate  chanced  to  be  left  open :  showing,  beyond,  the  well- 
remembered  dusty  road  and  sun-burnt  fields.  The  way  was  as  free  to  him 
as  to  any  man  living,  but  he  no  sooner  raised  his  head  and  caught  sight 
of  it,  all  shining  in  the  sun,  than,  with  the  involuntary  instinct  of  a  pris- 
oner, he  cast  away  his  spade,  scampered  off  as  fast  as  bis  legs  would  carry 
him,  and  never  once  looked  back." 

At  Washington  Boz  had  an  interview  with  the  American 
President,  and,  as  might  be  expected,  the  great  drawing-room, 
and  the  other  chambers  on  the  ground-floor,  were  "  crowded  to 
excess.-'  No  wonder  that  as  soon  as  released  from  the  throng, 
our  traveller  turned  his  thoughts  towards  the  wilds  and  forests 
of  the  Far  West ;  with  a  vague  hankering  after  the  vast  soli- 
tude and  quiet  of  a  Prairie  !  But  such  delights  are  to  be  reached 
by  a  course  no  smoother  than  that  of  true  love, — as  witness  the 
coaching  on  a  Virginian  road,  with  an  American  Mr.  Weller. 

"  He  is  a  negro — very  black  indeed.  He  is  dressed  in  a  coarse  pepper- 
and-salt  suit  excessively  patched  and  darned  (particularly  at  the  knees), 
grey  stockings,  enormous  unblacked  high-low  shoes,  and  very  short  trousers. 
He  has  two  odd  gloves  :  one  of  parti-colored  worsted,  and  one  of  leather.  He 
has  a  very  short  whip,  broken  in  the  middle,  and  bandaged  up  with  string. 
And  yet  he  wears  a  low-crowned,  broad-brimmed,  black  hat:  faintly  shad- 
owing forth  a  kind  of  insane  imitation  of  an  English  coachman !  But 
somebody  in  authority  cries  '  Go  ahead  !'  as  I  am  making  these  observa- 
tions. The  mail  takes  the  lead,  in  a  four-horse  wagon,  and  all  the  coaches 
follow  in  procession  headed  by  No.  1. 

"  By  the  way,  whenever  an  Englishman  would  cry  '  All  right !'  an  Amer- 


BOZ  IN  AMERICA. 


69 


ican  cries  '  Go  ahead  !'  which  is.  somewhat  expressive  of  the  national 
character  of  the  two  countries. 

"The  first  half  mile  of  the  road  is  over  bridges  made  of  loose  planks  laid 
across  two  parallel  poles,  which  tilt  up  as  the  wheels  roll  over  them,  and 
in  the  river.  The  river  has  a  clayey  bottom,  and  is  full  of  holes,  so  that 
half  a  horse  is  constantly  disappearing  unexpectedly,  and  can't  be  found 
again  for  some  time. 

"  But  we  get  past  even  this,  and  come  to  the  road  itself,  which  is  a  series 
of  alternate  swamps  and  gravel-pits.  A  tremendous  place  is  close  before 
us,  the  black  driver  rolls  his  eyes,  screws  his  mouth  up  very  round,  and 
looks  straight  between  the  two  leaders,  as  if  he  were  saying  to  himself, 
4  We  have  done  this  before,  but  now  I  think  we  shall  have  a  crash.'  He 
takes  a  rein  in  each  hand  ;  jerks  and  pulls  at  both  ;  and  dances  on  the  splash- 
board with  both  feet  (keeping  his  seat  of  course),  like  the  late  lamented 
Ducrow  on  \wo  of  his  fiery  coursers.  We  come  to  the  spot,  sink  down  in 
the  mire  nearly  to  the  coach-window,  tilt  on  one  side  at  an  angle  of  forty- 
five  degrees,  and  stick  there.  The  insides  scream  dismally  ;  the  coach 
stops  ;  the  horses  flounder  ;  all  the  other  six  coaches  stop  ;  and  their  four 
and  twenty  horses  flounder  likewise ;  but  merely  for  company,  and  in  sym- 
pathy with  ours.    Then  the  following  circumstances  occur. 

"  Black  Driver  (to  the  horses). — <  Hi  !' 

"  Nothing  happens.    Insides  scream  again. 

"  Black  Driver  (to  the  horses). — '  Ho  !' 

"  Horses  plunge,  and  splash  the  black  driver. 

"  Gentleman  inside  (looking  out). — '  Why,  what  on  airth — ' 

"  Gentleman  receives  a  variety  of  splashes  and  draws  his  head  in  again, 
without  finishing  his  question,  or  waiting  for  an  answer. 

"  Black  Driver  (still  to  the  horses). — '  Jiddy  !  Jiddy 

"  Horses  pull  violently,  drag  the  coach  out  of  the  hole,  and  draw  it  up  a 
bank ;  so  steep,  that  the  black  driver's  legs  fly  up  into  the  air,  and  he  goes 
back  among  the  luggage  on  the  roof.  But  he  immediately  recovers  himself, 
and  cries  (still  to  the  horses), 

"  c  pill  i> 

"  No  effect.  On  the  contrary,  the  coach  begins  to  roll  back  upon  No.  2, 
which  rolls  back  upon  No.  3,  which  rolls  back  upon  No.  4,  and  so  on  until 
No.  7  is  heard  to  curse  and  swear,  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  behind. 

"  Black  Driver  (louder  than  before). — (  Pill !' 

"  Horses  make  another  struggle  to  get  up  the  bank,  and  again  the  coach 
rolls  backward. 

"  Black  Driver  (louder  than  before). — *  Pe-e-e-ill !' 
"  Horses  make  a  desperate  struggle. 

"  Black  Driver  (recovering  spirits). — '  Hi,  Jiddy,  Jiddy,  pill." 
"  Horses  make  another  effort. 

"  Black  Driver  (with  great  vigcr). — c  Ally  Loo  !  Hi,  Jiddy,  Jiddy, 
Pill.    Ally  Loo !' 

f  Horses  almost  do  it. 


70 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


"  Black  Driver  (with  his  eyes  starting  out  of  his  head).—'  Lee,  den. 
Lee,  dere.    Hi.    Jiddy,  Jiddy.    Pill.    Ally  Loo.    Lee-e-e-e-e !' 

"  They  run  up  the  bank,  and  go  down  again  on  the  other  side  at  a  fearful 
pace.  It  is  impossible  to  stop  them,  and  at  the  bottom  there  is  a  deep 
hollow,  full  of  water.  The  coach  rolls  frightfully.  The  insides  scream. 
The  mud  and  water  fly  about  us.  The  black  driver  dances  like  a  madman. 
Suddenly,  we  are  all  right,  by  some  extraordinary  means,  and  stop  to 
bieathe. 

"  A  black  friend  of  the  driver  is  sitting  on  a  fence.  The  black  driver 
recognizes  him  by  twirling  his  head  round  and  round  like  a  harlequin, 
rolling  his  eyes,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  and  grinning  from  ear  to  ear.  He 
stops  short,  turns  to  me,  and  says  : 

"  '  We  shall  get  you  through,  sa,  like  a  fiddle,  and  hope  a  please  you  when 
we  get  you  through,  sa.  Old  'ooman  at  home,  sir,'  chuckling  very  much. 
'  Outside  gentleman,  sa,  he  often  remember  old  'ooman  at  home,  sa,'  grinning 
again. 

"  '  Ay,  ay,  we'll  take  care  of  the  old  woman.    Don't  be  afraid.' 

"  The  black  driver  grins  again,  but  there  is  another  hole,  and  beyond  that 
another  bank,  close  before  us.  So  he  stops  short :  cries  (to  the  horses 
again),  'Easy — easy  den — ease — steady — hi — Jiddy — pill — Ally — Loo,"  but 
never  '  Lee  !'  until  we  are  reduced  to  the  very  last  extremity,  and  are  in  the 
midst  of  difficulties,  extrication  from  which  appears  to  be  all  but  impos- 
sible. 

"  And  so  we  do  the  ten  miles  or  thereabouts  in  two  hours  and  a  half, 
breaking  no  bones,  though  bruising  a  great  many ;  and  in  short,  getting 
through  the  distance  '  like  a  fiddle.' " 

The  next  conveyance  was  by  the  Harrisburg  Canal,  on  which 
there  are  two  passage-boats,  the  Express  and  the  Pioneer.  For 
some  reason,  however,  the  Pioneers  would  come  into  the  other 
boat,  in  which  Boz  was  a  passenger — an  addition  that  drew  out 
a  certain  thin-faced,  spare-figured  man,  of  middle  age  and 
stature,  dressed  in  a  dusty,  drabbish-colored  suit,  and  up  to  that 
moment  as  quiet  as  a  lamb. 

"  '  This  may  suit  you,  this  may,  but  it  don't  suit  me.  This  may  be  all 
very  well  with  Down  Easters,  and  men  of  Boston  raising,  but  it  won't  suit 
my  figure,  no  how ;  and  no  two  ways  about  that ;  and  so  I  tell  you.  Now, 
I'm  from  the  brown  forests  of  the  Mississippi,  I  am;  and  when  the  sun 
shines  on  me,  it  does  shine — a  little.  It  don't  glimmer  where  /  live,  the 
sun  don't.  No.  I'm  a  brown  forester,  I  am.  I  an't  a  Johnny  Cake.  There 
are  no  smooth  skins  where  I  live.  We're  rough  men,  there.  Rather.  If 
Down  Easters  and  men  of  Boston  raising  are  like  this,  I'm  glad  of  it,  but 
I'm  none  of  that  raising  or  of  that  breed.  No.  This  company  wants  a 
little  fixing — it  does.    I'm  the  wrong  sort  of  a  man  for  'em,  /  am.  They 


BOZ  IN  AMERICA 


71 


won't  like  me,  they  won't.  This  is  piling  of  it  up  a  little  too  mountainous, 
this  is.' 

"At  tha  end  of  every  one  of  these  short  sentences  he  turned  upon  his 
heel,  and  walked  the  other  way  ;  checking  himself  abruptly  when  he  had 
finished  another  short  sentence,  and  turning  back  again.  It  is  impossible 
for  me  to  say  what  terrific  meaning  was  hidden  in  the  words  of  this  brown 
forester,  but  I  know  that  the  other  passengers  looked  on  in  a  sort  of  admir- 
ing horror,  and  that  presently  the  boat  was  put  back  to  the  wharf,  and  as 
many  of  the  Pioneers  as  could  be  coaxed  or  builied  into  going  away  were 
got  rid  of." 

It  was  perfectly  natural,  after  this  "  touch  of  the  earthquake," 
to  desire  to  see  the  Shakers,  whose  peculiar  delirium  tremens 
had  been  reported  as  unspeakably  absurd  :  but  the  elders  had 
clearly  received  a  hint  of  a  chield  coming,  like  Captain  Grose, 
to  make  Notes  and  print  them. 

"  Presently  we  came  to  the  beginning  of  the  village,  and  alighting  at  the 
door  of  a  house  where  the  Shaker  manufactures  are  sold,  and  which  is  the 
head-quarters  of  the  elders,  requested  permission  to  see  the  Shaker 
worship. 

"  Pending  the  conveyance  of  this  request  to  some  person  in  authority,  we 
walked  into  a  grim  room,  where  several  grim  hats  were  hanging  on  grim 
pegs,  and  the  time  was  grimly  told  by  a  grim  clock,  which  uttered  every 
tick  with  a  kind  of  struggle,  as  if  it  broke  the  grim  silence  reluctantly  and 
under  protest.  Ranged  against  the  wall  were  six  or  eight  stiff,  high-backed 
chairs,  and  they  partook  so  strongly  of  the  general  grimness  that  one  would 
much  rather  have  sat  on  the  floor  than  incurred  the  smallest  obligation  to 
any  of  them. 

"  Presently  there  stalked  into  this  apartment  a  grim  old  Shaker,  with  eyes 
as  hard,  and  dull,  and  cold,  as  the  great  round  metal  buttons  on  his  coat  and 
waistcoat:  a  sort  of  calm  goblin.  Being  informed  of  our  desire,  he  pro- 
duced a  newspaper  wherein  the  body  of  elders,  whereof  he  was  a  member, 
had  advertised  but  a  few  days  before,  that,  in  consequence  of  certain  un- 
seemly interruptions  which  their  worship  had  received  from  strangers,  the 
chapel  was  closed  for  the  space  of  one  year." 

The  chapel  will  now  be  opened  :  for  the  chield  is  in  England, 
and  his  Notes  are  not  only  printed  but  published,  and  by  this 
time  have  been  abundantly  circulated,  read,  quoted,  and  criti- 
cised. Many  of  them,  that  will  be  canvassed  elsewhere,  are 
here  left  untouched,  for  obvious  reasons  ;  and  various  desirable 
extracts  are  omitted  through  want  of  space  ;  for  example,  a 
pretty  episode  of  a  little  woman  with  a  little  baby  at  St.  Louis, 


72 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


and  sundry  sketches  of  scenery,  character,  and  manners,  as 
superior  as  "  chicken  fixings  "  to  "  common  doings."  We  have 
nevertheless  worked  out  our  original  intention.  The  political 
will  discuss  the  author's  notions  of  the  republican  institutions  ; 
the  analytical  will  scrutinize  his  philosophy  ;  the  critical  his 
style,  and  the  hypocritical  his  denunciations  of  cant.  Our  only 
aim  has  been,  according  to  the  heading  of  this  article,  to  give 
the  reader  a  glimpse  of  Boz  in  America. 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPY  WRONG. 


73 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


LETTER  L 

To  the  Editor  of  the  Athenjetjm  : 

My  dear  Sir, — I  have  read  with  much  satis/action  the  occa- 
sional exposures  in  your  Journal  of  the  glorious  uncertainty  of 
the  Law  of  Copyright,  and  your  repeated  calls  for  its  revision. 
It  is  high  time,  indeed,  that  some  better  system  should  be  esta- 
blished ;  and  I  cannot  but  regret  that  the  legislature  of  our  own 
country,  which  patronizes  the  great  cause  of  liberty  all  over 
the  world,  has  not  taken  the  lead  in  protecting  the  common  rights 
of  Literature.  We  have  a  national  interest  in  each  ;  and  their 
lots  ought  not  to  be  cast  asunder.  The  French,  Prussian,  and 
American  governments,  however,  have  already  got  the  start  of 
us,  and  are  concerting  measures  for  suppressing  those  piracies, 
which  have  become,  like  the  influenza,  so  alarmingly  prevalent. 
It  would  appear,  from  the  facts  established,  that  an  English  book 
merely  transpires  in  London,  but  is  published  in  Paris,  Brussels, 
or  New  York. 

'Tis  but  to  sail,  and  with  to-morrow's  sun 
The  pirates  will  be  bound. 

Mr.  Bulwer  tells  us  of  a  literary  gentleman,  who  felt  himself 
under  the  necessity  of  occasionally  going  abroad  to  preserve  his 
self-respect ;  and  without  some  change,  an  author  will  equally 
be  obliged  to  repair  to  another  country  to  enjoy  his  circulation. 
As  to  the  American  reprints,  I  can  personally  corroborate  your 
assertion,  that  heretofore  a  transatlantic  bookseller  "  has  taken 


74 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


five  hundred  copies  of  a  single  work,"  whereas  he  now>  orders 
none,  or  merely  a  solitary  one,  to  set  up  from.  This,  I  hope, 
is  a  matter  as  important  as  the  little  question  of  etiquette,  which, 
according  to  Mr.  Cooper,  the  fifty  millions  will  have  to  adjust. 
Before,  however,  any  international  arrangements  be  entered  into, 
it  seems  only  consistent  with  common  sense  that  we  should  begin 
at  home,  and  first  establish  what  copyright  is  in  Britain,  and 
provide  for  its  protection  from  native  pirates  or  Book-aneen*,  I 
have  learned,  therefore,  with  pleasure,  that  the  sUte  of  the 
law  is  to  be  brought  under  the  notice  of  Parliament  by  Mr.  Ser- 
jeant Talfourd,  who,  from  his  legal  experience  and  literary 
tastes,  is  so  well  qualified  for  the  task.  The  grievances  of  au- 
thors have  neither  been  loudly  nor  often  urged  on  Lords  or  Com- 
mons ;  but  their  claims  have  long  been  lying  on  the  library 
table,  if  not  on  the  table  of  the  House, — and  mcthinks  their 
wrongs  have  only  to  be  properly  stated  to  obtain  redress.  I 
augur  for  them  at  least  a  good  hearing,  for  such  seldom  and 
low-toned  appeals  ought  to  find  their  way  to  organs  as  "  deaf  to 
clamor  "  as  the  old  citizen  of  Cheapside,  who  said  that  "  the 
more  noise  there  was  in  the  street,  the  more  he  didn't  hear  it." 
In  the  meantime,  as  an  author  myself,  as  well  as  proprietor  of 
copyrights  in  "  a  small  way,"  I  make  bold  to  offer  my  own  feel- 
ings and  opinions  on  the  subject,  with  some  illustrations  from 
what,  although  not  a  decidedly  serious  writer,  I  will  call  my 
experiences.  And  here  I  may  appropriately  plead  my  apology 
for  taking  on  myself  the  cause  of  a  fraternity  of  which  I  am  so 
humble  a  member;  but,  in  truth,  this  very  position,  which  for- 
bids vanity  on  my  own  account,  favors  my  pride  on  that  of 
others,  and  thus  enables  me  to  speak  more  becomingly  of  the 
deserts  of  my  brethren,  and  the  dignity  of  the  craft.  Like  P. 
P.  the  Clerk  of  the  Parish,  who  with  a  proper  reverence  for  his 
calling,  confessed  an  elevation  of  mind  in  only  considering  him- 
self as  "  a  shred  of  the  linen  vestment  of  Aaron,"  I  own  to  an 
inward  exultation  at  being  but  a  Precentor,  as  it  were,  in  that 
worship,  which  numbers  Shakspeare  and  Milton  amongst  its 
priests.  Moreover,  now  that  the  rank  of  authors,  and  the  nature 
and  value  of  literary  property,  are  about  to  be  discussed,  and  I 
hope  established  for  ever,  it  becomes  the  duty  of  every  literary 


I  OPYRIGHT  AND  COPY  WRONG. 


75 


man — as  much  as  of  a  Peer  when  his  Order  is  in  question — to 
assert  his  station,  and  stand  up  manfully  for  the  rights,  honors, 
and  privileges  of  the  Profession  to  which  he  belongs.  The  ques- 
tion is  not  a  mere  sordid  one — it  is  not  a  simple  inquiry  in  what 
way  the  emoluments  of  literature  may  be  best  secured  to  the 
author  or  proprietors  of  a  work  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  involves  a  prin- 
ciple of  grave  importance,  not  only  to  literary  men,  but  to  those 
who  love  letters,^-and,  I  will  presume  to  say,  to  society  at  large. 
It  has  a  moral  as  well  as  commercial  bearing  ;  for  the  Legislature 
will  not  only  have  to  decide  directly,  by  a  formal  act,  whether  the 
literary  interest  is  worthy  of  a  place  beside  the  shipping  interest, 
the  landed  interest,  the  funded  interest,  the  manufacturing,  and 
other  public  interests,  but  also  it  will  have  indirectly  to  deter- 
mine whether  literary  men  belong  to  the  privileged  class, — the 
higher,  lower,  or  middle  class, — the  working  class, — productive 
or  unproductive  class, — or,  in  short,  to  any  class  at  all.*  "  Lite- 
rary men,"  says  Mr.  Bulwer,  "  have  not  with  us  any  fixed  and 
settled  position  as  men  of  letters."  We  have,  like  Mr.  Cooper's 
American  lady,  no  precedence.  We  are,  in  fact,  nobodies.  Our 
place,  in  turf  language,  is  nowhere.  Like  certain  birds  and 
beasts  of  difficult  classification,  we  go  without  any  at  all.  We 
have  no  more  caste  than  the  Pariahs.  We  are  on  a  par — ac- 
cording as  we  are  scientific,  theologic,  imaginative,  dramatic, 
poetic,  historic,  instructive,  or  amusing — with  quack  doctors, 
street-preachers,  strollers,  ballad-singers,  hawkers  of  last  dying 
speeches,  Punch-and-Judies,  conjorers,  tumblers,  and  other  "  di- 
varting  vagabonds."  We  are  as  the  Jews  in  the  East,  the 
Africans  in  the  West,  or  the  gipsies  anywhere.  We  belong  to 
those  to  whom  nothing  can  belong.  I  have  even  misgivings — 
heaven  help  us — if  an  author  have  a  parish  !  I  have  serious 
doubts  if  a  work  be  a  qualification  for  the  workhouse  !  The 
law  apparently  cannot  forget,  or  forgive,  that  Homer  was  a  va- 
grant, Shakspeare  a  deer-stealer,  Milton  a  rebel.  Our  very 
cracks  tell  against  us  in  the  statute  ;  Poor  Stoneblind,  Bill  the 
Poacher,  and  Radical  Jack  have  been  the  ruin  of  our  gang. 
We  have  neither  character  to  lose  nor  property  to  protect.  We 

*  At  a  guess,  I  should  say  we  were  classed,  in  opposition  to  a  certain 
literary  sect,  as  Inutilitarians 


TO  PROSE  AND  VERSE. 

are  by  law — outlaws,  undeserving  of  civil  rights.  We  may  be 
robbed,  libelled,  outraged  with  impunity,  being  at  the  same  time 
liable,  for  such  offences,  to  all  the  rigor  of  the  code.  I  will  not 
adduce,  as  I  could  do,  a  long  catalogue  of  the  victims  of  thi? 
system  which  seems  to  have  been  drawn  up  by  the  "  Lord  of 
Misrule,"  and  sanctioned  by  the  "  Abbot  of  Unreason."  I  will 
select,  as  Sterne  took  his  captive,  a  single  author.  To  add  to 
the  parallel,  behold  him  in  a  prison  !  He  is  sentenced  to  remain 
there  during  the  monarch's  pleasure,  to  stand  three  times  in 
the  pillory,  and  to  be  amerced  besides  in  the  heavy  sum  of  two 
hundred  marks.  The  sufferer  of  this  threefold  punishment  is 
one  rather  deserving  of  a  triple  crown,  as  a  man,  as  an  author, 
and  as  an  example  of  that  rare  commercial  integrity  which 
does  not  feel  discharged  of  its  debts,  though  creditors  have  ac- 
cepted a  composition,  till  it  has  paid  them  in  full.  It  is  a  literary 
offence — a  libel,  or  presumed  libel,  which  has  incurred  the  se- 
verity of  the  law ;  but  the  same  power  that  oppresses  him, 
refuses  or  neglects  to  support  him  in  the  protection  of  his  literary 
character  and  his  literary  rights.  His  just  fame  is  depreciated 
by  public  slanderers,  and  his  honest,  honorable  earnings  are 
forestalled  by  pirates.  Of  one  of  his  performances  no  less  than 
twelve  surreptitious  editions  are  printed,  and  80,000  copies  are 
disposed  of  at  a  cheap  rate  in  the  streets  of  London.  I  am  writ- 
ing no  fiction,  though  of  one  of  fiction's  greatest  masters.  That 
captive  is — for  he  can  never  die — that  captive  author  is  Scott's, 
Johnson's,  Blair's,  MarmontePs,  Lamb's,  Chalmers's,  Beattie's — 
good  witnesses  to  character  these ! — every  Englishman's,  Bri- 
tain's, America's,  Germany's,  France's,  Spain's,  Italy's,  Ara- 
bia's ;  all  the  world's  Daniel  De  Foe  ! 

Since  the  age  of  the  author  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  the  law  has 
doubtless  altered  in  complexion,  but  not  in  character,  towards 
his  race.  It  no  longer  pillories  an  author  who  writes  to  the  dis- 
taste, or  like  poor  Daniel,  above  the  comprehension  of  the  Pow- 
ers that  be,  because  it  no  longer  pillories  any  one  ;  but  the 
imprisonment  and  the  fines  remain  in  force.  The  title  of  a 
book  is,  in  legal  phrase,  the  worst  title  there  is.  Literary  pro- 
perty is  the  lowest  in  the  market.  It  is  declared  by  law  worth 
only  so  many  years'  purchase,  after  which  the  private  right  be 


COPYRIGHf  AND  COPYWRONG. 


77 


comes  common ;  and  in  the  meantime,  the  estate  being  notori- 
ously infested  with  poachers,  is  as  remarkably  unprotected  by 
game  laws.  An  author's  winged  thoughts,  though  laid,  hatched, 
bred,  and  fed  within  his  own  domain,  are  less  his  property  than 
is  the  bird  of  passage  that  of  the  lord  of  the  manor,  on  whose 
soil  it  may  happen  to  alight.  An  author  cannot  employ  an 
armed  keeper  to  protect  his  preserves  ;  he  cannot  apply  to  a 
pindar  to  arrest  the  animals  that  trespass  on  his  grounds  ; — 
nay,  he  cannot  even  call  in  a  common  constable  to  protect  his 
purse  on  the  King's  highway  !  I  have  had  thoughts  myself  of 
seeking  the  aid  of  a  policeman,  but  counsel,  learned  in  the 
law,  have  dissuaded  me  from  such  a  course  ;  there  was  no 
way  of  defending  myself  from  tbe  petty  thief  but  by  picking 
my  own  pocket !  Thus  I  have  been  compelled  to  see  ny  own 
name  attached  to  catchpenny  works,  none  of  mine,  hawked 
about  by  placard-men  in  the  street ;  I,  who  detest  the  puffing 
system,  have  apparently  been  guilty  of  the  gross  forwardness 
of  walking  the  pavement  by  proxy  for  admirers,  like  the  dog 
Bashaw  !  I  have  been  made,  nominally,  to  ply  at  stage-coach 
windows  with  my  wares,  like  Isaac  Jacobs  with  his  cheap  pen- 
cils, and  Jacob  Isaacs  with  his  cheap  pen-knives,  to  cut  them 
with  : — and  without  redress,  for,  whether  I  had  placed  myself 
in  the  hands  of  the  law,  or  taken  the  law  in  my  own  hands, 
as  any  bumpkin  in  a  barn  knows,  there  is  nothing  to  be  thrashed 
out  of  a  man  of  straw.  Now,  with  all  humility,  if  my  poor 
name  be  any  recommendation  of  a  book,  I  conceive  I  am  en- 
titled to  reserve  it  for-  my  own  benefit.  What  says  the  pro- 
verb ? — "  When  your  name  is  up  you  may  lie  abed  ;"  but  what 
says  the  law  ? — at  least,  if  the  owner  of  the  name  be  an  au- 
thor. Why,  that  any  one  may  steal  his  bed  from  under  him 
and  sell  it;  that  is  to  say,  his  reputation,  and  the  revenue 
which  it  may  bring.  In  the  meantime,  for  other  street  frauds 
there  is  a  summary  process  :  the  vender  of  a  flash  watch,  or  a 
razor  made  to  sell,  though  he  appropriates  no  maker's  name,  is 
seized  without  ceremony  by  A  1,  carried  before  B  2,  and  com- 
mitted to  C  3,  as  regularly  as  a  child  goes  through  its  alphabet 
and  numeration.  They  have  defrauded  the  public,  forsooth, 
and  the  public  has  its  prompt  remedy  ;  but  for  the  literary 


7s 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


man,  thus  doubly  robbed,  of  his  money  and  his  reputation,  what 
is  h:s  redress  but  by  injunction,  or  action  against  walking  sha- 
dows,— a  truly  homoeopathic  remedy,  which  pretends  to  cure  by 
aggravating  the  disease.  I  have  thus  shown  how  an  author 
may  be  robbed  ;  for  if  the  works  thus  offered  at  an  unusually 
low  price  be  genuine,  they  must  have  been  dishonestly  ob- 
tained— the  brooms  were  stolen  ready  made  ;  if,  on  the  con- 
trary, they  be  counterfeit,  I  apprehend  there  will  be  little  diffi- 
culty in  showing  how  an  author  may  be  practically  libelled 
with  equal  impunity.  For  anything  I  know,  the  Peripatetic 
Philosophy  ascribed  to  me  by  the  above  itinerants,  might  be  he- 
retical, damnable,  libellous,  vicious,  or  obscene  ;  whilst,  for  any- 
thing they  knew  to  the  contrary,  the  purchasers  must  have  held 
me  responsible  for  the  contents  of  the  volumes  which  went 
abroad  so  very  publicly  under  my  name.  I  know,  indeed,  that 
parties  thus  deceived  have  expressed  their  regret  and  aston- 
ishment that  I  could  be  guilty  of  such  prose,  verse,  and  worse, 
as  they  had  met  with  under  my  signature.  I  believe  I  may  cite 
the  well-known  Mr.  George  Robins  as  a  purchaser  of  one  of 
the  counterfeits ;  and  if  he,  perhaps,  eventually  knocked  me 
down  as  a  street-preacher  of  infidelity,  sedition,  or  immorality,  it 
was  neither  his  fault  nor  mine.  I  may  here  refer,  en  passant — 
for  illustrations  are  plenty  as  blackberries — to  a  former  corres- 
pondence in  the  Athenceum,  in  which  I  had,  in  common  with  Mr 
Poole  and  the  late  Mr.  Colman,  to  disclaim  any  connexion  with 
a  periodical  in  which  I  was  advertised  as  a  contributor.  There 
was  more  recently,  and  probably  still  is,  one  Marshall,  of  Hol- 
born  Bars,  who  publicly  claims  me  as  a  writer  in  his  pay,  with 
as  much  right  to  the  imprint  of  my  name,  as  a  print  collector 
has  to  the  engravings  in  another  man's  portfolio  ;  but  against  this 
man  I  have  taken  no  rash  steps,  otherwise  called  legal,  knowing 
that  I  might  as  well  appear  to  Martial  Law  versus  Marshall,  as 
to  any  other.  As  a  somewhat  whimsical  case,  I  may  add  the 
following  : — Mr.  Chappell,  the  music- seller,  agreed  to  give  me  a 
liberal  sum  for  the  use  of  any  ballad  I  might  publish  ;  and  an- 
other party,  well  known  in  the  same  line,  applied  to  me  for  a 
formal  permission  to  publish  a  little  song  of  mine,  which  a  lady 
had  done  me  the  -honor  of  setting  to  an  original  melody.  Here 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


seemed  to  be  a  natural  recognition  of  copyright,  and  the  moral 
sense  of  justice  standing  instead  of  law  ;  but  in  the  meantime 

a  foreign  composer — I  forget  his  name,  but  it  was  set  in  G  , 

took  a  fancy  to  some  of  my  verses,  and  without  the  semiquaver 
of  a  right,  or  the  demisemiquaver  of  an  apology,  converted 
them  to  his  own  use.  I  remonstrated,  of  course ;  and  the  re- 
ply, based  on  the  assurance  of  impunity,  not  only  admitted 
the  fact,  but  informed  me  that  Monsieur,  not  finding  my  lines 
agree  with  his  score,  had  taken  the  liberty  of  altering  them  at 
my  risk.  Now,  I  would  confidently  appeal  to  the  highest  poets 
in  the  land,  whether  they  do  not  feel  it  quite  responsibility 
enough  to  be  accountable  for  their  own  lays  in  the  mother 
tongue ;  but  to  be  answerable  also  for  the  attempts  in  Eng- 
lish verse  by  a  foreigner — and,  above  all,  a  Frenchman — is 
really  too  much  of  a  bad  thing  ! 

Would  it  be  too  much  to  request  of  the  learned  Serjeant  who 
has  undertaken  our  cause,  that  he  would  lay  these  cases  before 
Parliament  ?  Noble  Lords  and  Honorable  Gentlemen  come 
down  to  their  respective  Houses,  in  a  fever  of  nervous  excite- 
ment, and  shout  of  "  Privilege  !  Breach  of  Privilege  !"  because 
their  speeches  have  been  erroneously  reported,  or  their  meaning 
garbled  in  perhaps  a  single  sentence  ;  but  how  would  they  relish 
to  see  whole  speeches, — nay,  pamphlets, — they  had  never  uttered 
or  written,  paraded,  with  their  names,  styles,  and  titles  at  full 
length,  by  those  placarding  walkers,  who,  like  fathers  of  lies,  or 
rather  mothers  of  them,  carry  one  staring  falsehood  pickaback, 
and  another  at  the  bosom  ?  How  would  those  gentlemen  like  to 
see  extempore  versions  of  their  orations  done  into  English  by  a 
native  of  Paris,  and  published,  as  the  pig  ran,  down  all  sorts  of 
streets  ?  Yet  to  similar  nuisances  are  authors  exposed  without 
adequate  means  of  abating  them.  It  is  often  better,  I  have  been 
told,  to  abandon  one's  rights  than  to  defend  them  at  law, — a  sen- 
tence that  will  bear  a  particular  application  to  literary  grievan- 
ces. For  instance,  the  law  would  have  something  to  say  to  a 
man  who  claimed  his  neighbor's  umbrella  as  his  own  parasol, 
Decause  he  had  cut  off  a  bit  round  the  rim  :  yet,  by  something  of 
a  similar  process,  the  better  part  of  a  book  may  be  appropriated — 
and  this  is  so  civil  an  offence,  that  any  satisfaction  at  law  is  only 


80 


FKuSE  AND  VERSE 


to  be  obtained  by  a  very  costly  and  doubtful  course.  There  was 
even  a  piratical  work,  which, — to  adopt  Burke's  paradoxical 
style, — disingenuously  ingenuous  and  dishonestly  honest,  assumed 
the  plain  title  of  "  The  Thief,"  professing,  with  the  connivance  of 
the  law,  to  steal  all  its  materials.  How  this  Thief  died  I  know 
not ;  but  as  it  was  a  literary  thief,  I  would  lay  long  odds  that  the 
law  was  not  its  finisher. 

These  piracies  are  naturally  most  injurious  to  these  authors 
whose  works  are  of  a  fugitive  nature,  or  on  topics  of  temporary 
interest ;  but  there  are  writers  of  a  more  solid  stamp — of  a  higher 
order  of  mind,  or  nobler  ambition,  who  devote  themselves  to  the 
production  of  works  of  permanent  value  and  utility.  Such  works 
often  creep  but  slowly  into  circulation  and  repute,  but  then 
become  classics  for  ever.  And  what  encouragement  or  reward 
does  the  law  hold  forth  to  such  contributors  to  our  Standard 
National  Literature  ?  Why,  that  after  a  certain  lapse  of  years, 
coinciding  probably  with  the  term  requisite  to  establish  the  ster- 
ling character  of  the  work,  or,  at  least,  to  procure  its  general 
recognition — then,  aye,  just  then,  when  the  literary  property  is 
realized,  when  it  becomes  exchangeable  against  the  precious 
metals  which  are  considered  by  some  political  and  more  practi- 
cal economists  as  the  standard  of  value — the  law  dedrees  that 
then  all  right  or  interest  in  the  book  shall  expire  in  the  author, 
and  by  some  strange  process,  akin  to  the  Hindoo  transmigrations, 
revive  in  the  great  body  of  the  booksellers.  And  here  arises  a 
curious  question.  After  the  copyright  has  so  lapsed,  suppose 
that  some  speculative  publisher,  himself  an  amateur  writer, 
should  think  fit  to  abridge  or  expand  the  author's  matter — exten- 
uate or  aggravate  his  arguments — French  polish  his  style — John- 
sonize  his  phraseology — or  even,  like  Winifred  Jenkins,  wrap 
his  own  "  bit  of  nonsense  under  his  Honor's  kiver," — is  there 
any  legal  provision  extant  to  which  the  injured  party  could 
appeal  for  redress  of  such  an  outrage  on  all  that  is  left  to  him,  his 
reputation  %  I  suspect  there  is  none  whatever.  There  is  yet 
another  singular  result  from  this  state  of  the  law,  which  I  beg 
leave  to  illustrate  by  my  own  case.  If  I  may  modestly  appropriate 
a  merit,  it  is  that,  whatever  my  faults,  I  have  at  least  been  a  decent 
writer.    In  a  species  of  composition,  where,  like  the  ignis  fatuus 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPY  WRONG. 


81 


that  guides  into  a  bog,  a  glimmer  of  the  ludicrous  is  apt  to  lead 
the  fancy  into  an  indelicacy,  I  feel  some  honest  pride  in  remem- 
bering that  the  reproach  of  impurity  has  never  been  cast  upon 
me  by  my  judges.  It  has  not  been  my  delight  to  exhibit  the 
Muse,  as  it  has  tenderly  been  called,  "high-kilted."  I  have  had 
the  gratification,  therefore,  of  seeing  my  little  volumes  placed  in 
the  hands  of  boys  and  girls ;  and  as  I  have  children  of  my  own, 
to,  I  hope,  survive  me,  I  have  the  inexpresb/ble  comfort  cf  think- 
ing  that  hereafter  they  will  be  able  to  cast  their  eyes  over  the 
pages  inscribed  with  my  name,  without  a  burning  blush  on  their 
young  cheeks  to  reflect  that  the  author  was  their  father.  So 
whispers  Hope,  with  the  dulcet  voice  and  the  gofden  hair;  but 
what  thunders  Law,  of  the  iron  tone  and  the  frizzled  wig  ? 
"  Decent  as  thy  Muse  may  be  now — a  delicate  Ariel — she  shall 
be  indecent  and  indelicate  hereafter  !  She  shall  class  with  the 
bats  and  the  fowls  obscene  !  The  slow  reward  of  thy  virtue  shall 
be  the  same  as  the  prompt  punishment  of  vice.  Thy  copyright 
shall  depart  from  thee — it  shall  be  everybody's  and  anybody's, 
and  '  no  man  shall  call  it  his  own  !'  " 

Verily,  if  such  be  the  proper  rule  of  copyright,  for  the  sake 
of  consistency  two  very  old  copywriters  should  be  altered  to 
match,  and  run  thus  : — "  Virtue  is  its  own  punishment." — "  Age 
commands  disrespect  f" 

To  return  to  the  author,  whose  fame  is  slow  and  sure — to  be 
its  own  reward, — should  he  be  dependent,  as  is  often  the  case,  on 
the  black  and  white  bread  of  literature — should  it  be  the  profes- 
sion by  which  he  lives,  it  is  evident  that  under  such  a  system  he 
must  beg,  run  into  debt,  or  starve.  And  many  have  been  beg- 
gars— many  have  got  into  debt ;  it  is  hardly  possible  to  call  up 
the  ghost  of  a  literary  hero,  without  the  apparition  of  a  catchpole 
at  his  elbow,  for,  like  Jack  the  Giant-killer,  our  elder  worthies, 
who  had  the  Cap  of  Knowledge,  found  it  equally  convenient  to 
be  occasionally  invisible,  as  well  as  to  possess  the  Shoes  of  Swift- 
ness, — and  some  have  starved  !  Could  the  "  Illustrious  Dead  " 
arise,  after  some  Anniversary  Dinner  of  the  Literary  Fund,  and 
walk  in  procession  round  the  table,  like  the  resuscitated  objects 
of  the  Royal  Humane  Society,  what  a  melancholy  exhibition 
they  would  make  !    I  will  not  marshal  them  forth  in  order,  but 

Part  ii,  8 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


leave  the  show  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader.  I  doubt  whether 
the  Illustrious  Living  would  make  a  much  brighter  muster.  Sup. 
posing  a  general  summons,  how  many  day-rules — how  many 
incognitos  from  abroad — how  many  visits  to  Monmouth  Street 
would  be  necessary  to  enable  the  members  to  put  in  an  appear- 
ance !  I  fear,  heaven  forgive  me  !  some  of  our  nobles  even  would 
show  only  Three  Golden  Balls  in  their  coronets  !  If  we  do  not 
actually  starve  or  die  by  poison  in  this  century,  it  is,  perhaps, 
owing  partly  to  the  foundation  of  the  Literary  Fund,  and  partly 
to  the  invention  of  the  Stomach  Pump  ;  but  the  truly  abject  state 
of  Literature  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact,  that,  with  a  more 
accurate  sense  of  the  destitution  of  the  Professors,  than  of  the 
dignity  of  the  Profession,  a  proposal  has  lately  been  brought  for- 
ward for  the  erection  of  alms-houses  for  paupers  of  "  learning 
and  genius,"  who  have  fallen  into  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf,  under 
the  specious  name  of  Literary  Retreats,  or,  as  a  military  man 
would  technically  and  justly  read  such  a  record  of  our  failures, 
Literary  Defeats.  Nor  is  this  the  climax :  the  proposal  names 
half  a  dozen  of  these  humble  abodes  to  "  make  a  beginning  " 
with — a  mere  brick  of  the  building — as  if  the  projector,  in  his 
mind's  eye,  saw  a  whole  Mile  End  Road  of  one-storied  tenements 
in  the  shell,  stretching  from  Number  Six — and  "  to  be  continued  !" 

Visions  of  paupers,  spare  my  aching  sight, 
Ye  unbuilt  houses,  crowd  not  on  my  soul ! 

I  do  hope,  before  we  are  put  into  yellow-leather  very  small- 
clothes, muffin-caps,  green-baize  coats  and  badges, — and  made 
St.  Minerva's  charity-boys  at  once, — for  that  must  be  the  first 
step, — that  the  Legislature  will  interfere,  and  endeavor  to  pro- 
vide better  for  our  sere  and  yellow  leaves,  by  protecting  our 
black  and  white  ones.  Let  the  law  secure  to  us  a  fair  chance  of 
getting  our  own,  and  perhaps,  with  proper  industry,  we  may  be 
able — who  knows  ? — to  build  little  snuggeries  for  ourselves. 
Under  the  present  system,  the  chances  are  decidedly  against  a 
literary  man's  even  laying  a  good  foundation  of  French  bricks. 
To  further  illustrate  the  nature  of  a  copyright,  we  will  suppose 
that  an  author  retains  it,  or  publishes,  as  it  is  called,  on  his  own 
account.    He  will  then  have  to  divide  amongst  the  trade,  in  the 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


83 


shape  of  commission,  allowances,  &c,  from  40  to  45  per  cent,  of 
the  gross  proceeds,  leaving  the  Stationer,  Printer,  Binder,  Adver- 
tising, and  all  other  expenses  to  be  paid  out  of  the  remainder. 
And  here  arise  two  important  contingencies.  1st.  In  order  that 
the  author  may  know  the  true  number  of  the  impression,  and, 
consequently,  the  correct  amount  of  the  sale,  it  is  necessary  that 
his  publisher  should  be  honest.  2dly.  For  the  author  to  duly 
receive  his  profits,  his  publisher  must  be  solvent.  I  intend  no 
disrespect  to  the  trade  in  general  by  naming  these  conditions ; 
but  I  am  bound  to  mention  them,  as  risks  adding  to  the  insecurity 
of  the  property  :  as  two  hurdles  which  the  rider  of  Pegasus  mty 
have  to  clear  in  his  course  to  be  a  winner.  If  I  felt  inclined  to 
reflect  on  the  trade,  it  would  be  to  censure  those  dishonest  mem- 
bers of  it,  who  set  aside  a  principle  in  which  the  interests  of 
authors  and  booksellers  are  identical — the  inviolability  of  copy- 
right. I  need  not  point  out  the  notorious  examples  of  direct  piracy 
at  home,  which  have  made  the  foreign  offences  comparatively 
venial ;  nor  yet  those  more  oblique  plagiarisms,  and  close  paro- 
dies, which  are  alike  hurtful  in  their  degree.  Of  the  evil  of  these 
latter  practices  I  fear  our  bibliopoles  are  not  sufficiently  aware ; 
but  that  man  deserves  to  have  his  head  published  in  foolscap,  who 
does  not  see  that  whatever  temporary  advantages  a  system  of 
piracy  may  hold  out,  the  consequent  swamping  of  Literature  will 
be  ruinous  to  the  trade,  till  eventually  it  may  dwindle  down  to 
Four-and-Twenty  Booksellers  all  in  a  Row, — and  all  in  "  the 
old  book  line,"  pushing  off  back-stock  and  bartering  remainders. 

But  my  letter  is  exceeding  all  reasonable  length,  and  I  will 
reserve  what  else  I  have  to  say  till  next  post. 


LETTER  II. 

To  the  Editor  of  the  Athenaeum  : 

My  Dear  Sir, — I  have,  perhaps,  sufficiently  illustrated  the 
state  of  copyright,  bad  as  it  is,  without  the  help  of  Foreign  in- 
tervention :  not,  however,  without  misgivings  that  I  shall  be  sus- 


94 


PROSE  AND  VERSED. 


pected  of  quoting  from  some  burlesque  code,  drawn  up  by  a 
R,abelais  in  ridicule  of  the  legislative  efforts  of  a  community  of 
ourang-outangs — or  a  sample  by  Swift,  of  the  Constitution  of  the 
Sages  of  Laputa.  I  have  proved  that  literary  property  might 
almost  be  defined,  reversing  the  common  advertisement,  as  some- 
thing of  use  to  everybody  but  the  owner.  To  guard  this  preca- 
rious possession  I  have  shown  how  the  law  provides,  1st,  That 
if  a  work  be  of  temporary  interest  it  shall  virtually  be  free  for 
any  Bookaneer  to  avail  himself  of  its  pages  and  its  popularity 
with  impunity.  2dly.  That  when  time  has  stamped  a  work  as 
of  permanent  value,  the  copyright  shall  belong  to  anybody  or 
nobody.  I  may  now  add, — as  if  to  "  huddle  jest  upon  jest," — 
that  the  mere  registry  of  a  work,  to  entitle  it  to  this  precious 
protection,  incurs  a  fee  of  eleven  copies— in  value,  it  might  hap- 
pen, some  hundreds  of  pounds!  Then  to  protect  the  author, — 
"  aye,  such  protection  as  vultures  give  to  lambs," — I  have  in- 
stanced how  he  is  responsible  for  all  he  writes — and  subject,  for 
libel  and  so  forth,  to  fines  and  imprisonments — how  he  may  libel 
by  proxy — and  how  he  may  practically  be  libelled  himself  with- 
out redress.  I  have  evidenced  how  the  law,  that  protects  his 
brass-plate  on  the  door,  will  wink  at  the  stealing  of  his  name  by 
a  brazen  pirate ;  howbeit  the  author,  for  only  accommodating 
himself  by  a  forgery,  might  be  transported  beyond  seas.  I  have 
set  forth  how,  though  he  may  not.  commit  any  breach  of  privi- 
lege, he  may  have  his  own  words  garbled,  Frenchified,  trans- 
mogrified, garnished,  taken  in  or  let  out,  like  old  clothes,  turned, 
dyed  and  altered.  I  have  proved,  in  short,  according  to  my  first 
position,  that  in  the  evil  eye  of  the  law,  "  we  have  neither  charac- 
ter to  lose  nor  property  to  protect," — that  there  is  "  one  law  for 
the  rich  and  another  for  the  poor  "  (alias  authors) — and  that  the 
weights  and  scales  which  Justice  uses  in  literary  matters  ought 
to  be  broken  before  her  face  by  the  petty  jury. 

And  now  let  me  ask,  is  this  forlorn  state — its  professors  thus 
degradingly  appreciated,  its  products  thus  shabbily  appraised — 
the  proper  condition  of  literature  ?  The  liberty  of  the  press  is 
boasted  of  as  a  part  of  the  British  constitution  :  but  might  it  not 
be  supposed  that,  in  default  of  a  censorship,  some  cunning 
Machiavel  had  devised  a  sly  underplot  for  the  discouragement 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


85 


of  letters — an  occult  conspiracy  to  present  "  men  of  learning  and 
genius  "  to  the  world's  eye  in  the  pitiful  plight  of  poor  devils, 
starvelings,  mumpers,  paupers,  vagrants,  loose  fish,  jobbers, 
needy  and  seedy  ones,  nobodies,  ne'er-do-weels,  shy  coves,  strol- 
lers, creatures,  wretches,  objects,  small  debtors,  borrowers,  de- 
pendents, lackpennies,  half-sirs,  clapper-dudgeons,  scamps,  in- 
solvents, maunderers,  blue-gowns,  bedesmen,  scarecrows,  fellows 
about  town,  sneaks,  scrubs,  shabbies,  rascal  deer  of  the  herd, 
animals  "  wi'  letter'd  braw  brass  collars  " — but  poor  dogs  for  all 
that  ?  Our  family  tree  is  ancient  enough,  for  it  is  coeval  with 
knowledge ;  and  Mythology,  the  original  Herald's  College,  has 
assigned  us  a  glorious  blazonry.  But  would  not  one  believe  that 
some  sneering  Mephistopeles,  willing  to  pull  down  "  God  Al- 
mighty's gentlemen,"  had  sought  to  supply  the  images  of  their 
heraldry  with  a  scurvier  gloss ;  e.  g.  a  Lady  Patroness  with  an 
segis,  that  gives  more  stones  than  bread  :  a  Patron  who  dispenses 
sunshine  in  lieu  of  coal  and  candle :  nine  elderly  spinsters,  who 
have  never  married  for  want  of  fortune :  a  horse  with  wings, 
that  failing  oats  he  may  fly  after  the  chaff  that  is  driven  before 
the  wind  :  a  forked  mount,  and  no  knife  to  it :  a  lot  of  bay- 
leaves — and  no  custards  :  a  spring  of  Adam's  ale  !  In  fact,  all 
the  standing  jests  and  taunts  at  authors  and  authorship,  have 
their  point  in  poverty :  such  as  Grub-street — first  floors  down 
the  chimney — sixpenny  ordinaries — second  hand  suits — shabby 
blacks,  holes  at  the  elbow — and  true  as  epaulette  to  the  shoulder 
the  hand  of  the  bumbailiff! 

Unfortunately,  as  if  to  countenance  such  a  plot  as  I  have  hy- 
pothetically  assumed  above,  there  is  a  marked  disproportion,  as 
compared  with  other  professions,  in  the  number  of  literary  men 
who  are  selected  for  public  honors  and  employments.  So  far  in- 
deed from  their  having,  as  a  body,  any  voice  in  the  senate,  they 
have  scarcely  a  vote  at  the  hustings  ;  for  the  system  under  which 
they  suffer  is  hardly  adapted  to  make  them  forty- shilling  free- 
holders, much  less  to  enable  them  to  qualify  for  seats  in  the 
House.  A  jealous-minded  person  might  take  occasion  to  say, 
that  this  was  but  a  covert  mode  of  effecting  the  exclusion  of 
men  whom  the  gods  have  made  poetical,  and  whose  voices  might 
sound  more  melodious  and  quite  as  pregnant  with  meaning  as 


86 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


many  a  vox  et  pralerea  nihil  that  is  lifted  up  to  Mr.  Speaker.  A 
literary  man,  indeed, — Sheridan, — is  affirmed  by  Lord  Byron  to 
have  delivered  the  best  speech  that  was  ever  listened  to  in  Par- 
liament, — and  it  would  even  add  force  to  the  insinuation  that  the 
rotten  boroughs,  averred  to  be  the  only  gaps  by  which  men 
merely  rich  in  learning  and  genius  could  creep  into  the  Com- 
mons,  have  been  recently  stopped  up.  Of  course  such  a  ploi 
cannot  be  entertained  ;  but  in  the  meantime  the  effect  ;-s  the 
same,  and  whilst  an  apparent  slight  is  cast  upon  literature,  the 
senate  has  probably  been  deprived  of  the  musical  wisdom  of 
many  wonderful  Talking  Birds,  through  the  want  of  the  Golden 
Waters.  For  instance,  it  might  not  only  be  profitable  to  hear 
such  a  man  as  Southey,  who  has  both  read  history  and  written 
history,  speak  to  the  matter  in  hand,  when  the  affairs  of  nations 
are  discussed,  and  the  beacon  lights  of  the  past  may  be  made  to 
reflect  a  guiding  ray  into  the  London-like  fogs  of  the  future.  I 
am  quite  aware  that  literary  genius  per  se  is  not  reckoned  a  suffi- 
cient qualification  for  a  legislator  : — perhaps  not — but  why  is  not 
a  poet  as  competent  to  discuss  questions  concerning  the  public 
welfare,  the  national  honor,  the  maintenance  of  morals  and  re- 
ligion, or  the  education  of  the  people,  as  a  gentleman,  without  a 
touch  of  poetry  about  him,  who  had  been  schooling  his  intellects 
for  the  evening's  debate  by  a  course  of  morning  whist  ?  Into 
some  of  these  honorary  memberships,  so  to  speak,  a  few  distin- 
guished men  of  letters  might  be  safely  franked — and  if  they  did 
not  exactly  turn  up  trumps — I  mean  as  statesmen, — they  would 
serve  to  do  away  with  an  awkward  impression  that  literature, 
which  as  a  sort  of  Natural  religion  is  the  best  ally  of  the  Re- 
vealed one,  has  been  kindly  denied  any  share  in  that  affectionate 
relationship  which  obtains  between  Church  and  State.  As  for 
the  Upper  House,  I  will  not  presume  to  say  whether  the  dignity 
of  that  illustrious  assembly  would  have  been  impaired  or  other- 
wise by  the  presence  of  a  Baron  with  the  motto  of  Poeta  nascitur, 
non  Jit;  supposing  Literature  to  have  taken  a  seat  in  the  person 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott  beside  the  Lords  of  law  and  war.  It  is  not 
for  me  to  decide  whether  the  brain-bewitching  art  be  worthy 
of  such  high  distinction  as  the  brain-bewildering  art,  or  that 
other  one  described  by  a  bard,  himself  a  Peer;  but  in  the  ah- 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG 


87 


sence  of  such  creations  it  seems  a  peculiar  hardship  that  men 
of  letters  should  not  have  been  selected  for  distinctions;  the 
"  Blue  Ribbon  of  Literature  "  for  instance,  most  legitimately 
their  due.  Finally,  as  if  to  aggravate  these  neglects,  literary 
men  have  not  been  consoled,  as  is  usual,  for  the  loss  of  more 
airy  gratifications  by  a  share  in  what  Justice  Greedy  would  call 
"the  substantials,  Sir  Giles,  the  substantial. "  They  have  been 
treated  as  if  they  were  unworthy  of  public  employments,  at  least 
with  two  exceptions — Burns,  who  held  a  post  very  much  under 
Government,  and  Wordsworth,  who  shares  the  reproach  of  "the 
ioaves^and  fishes"  for  penny  rolls  and  sprats.  The  want  of 
business-like  habits,  it  is  true,  has  been  alleged  against  the  fra- 
ternity ;  but  even  granting  such  deficiency,  might  not  the  most 
practical  Idlers,  Loungers  and  Ramblers  of  them  all  fill  their 
posts  quite  as  efficiently  as  those  personages  who  are  paid  for 
having  nothing  to  do,  and  never  neglect  their  duty  ?  Not  that  I 
am  an  admirer  of  sinecures,  except  in  the  Irishman's  accepta- 
tion of  the  word  ;*  but  may  not  such  bonuses  to  gentlemen  who 
write  as  little  as  they  well  can,  viz.,  their  names  to  the  receipts, 
appear  a  little  like  a  wish  to  discountenance  those  other  gentle- 
men who  write  as  much  as  they  well  can,  and  are  at  the  expense 
of  printing  it  besides  ? 

I  had  better  here  enter  a  little  protest  against  these  remarks 
being  mistaken  for  the  splenetic  and  wrathful  ebullitions  of  a 
morbid  or  addled  egotism.  I  have  not  "  deviated  into  the  gloomy 
vanity  of  drawing  from  self;"  I  charge  the  State,  it  is  true, 
with  backing  literature  as  the  champion  backed  Cato — that  is  to 
say,  tail  foremost — but  I  am  far  from  therefore  considering  my- 
self as  an  overlooked,  underkept,  wet-blanketed,  hid-under-a- 
bushel,  or  lapped-in-a-napkin  individual.  I  have  never,  to  my 
knowledge,  displayed  any  remarkable  aptitude  for  business,  any 
decided  predilection  for  politics,  or  unusual  mastery  in  political 
economy — any  striking  talent  at  "  a  multiplicity  of  talk," — and 

*  One  Patrick  Maguire.  He  had  been  appointed  to  a  situation  the  re- 
verse of  a  place  of  all  work ;  and  his  friends,  who  called  to  congratulate 
him,  were  very  much  astonished  to  see  his  face  lengthen  on  receipt  of  the 
news.  "  A  sinecure  is  it !"  exclaimed  Pat.  "  The  divil  thank  them  for  that 
same.  Sure  I  know  what  a  sinecure  is.  It's  a  place  where  there's  nothing 
to  do,  and  they  pay  ye  by  the  piece." 


88 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


withal,  I  am  a  very  indifferent  hand  at  a  rubber.  I  nave  never, 
like  Bubb  Doddington,  expressed  a  determined  ambition  "  to 
make  a  public  figure — I  had  not  decided  what,  but  a  public 
figure  I  was  resolved  to  make."  Nay,  more,  in  a  general  view, 
I  am  not  anxious  to  see  literary  men  "  giving  up  to  a  party  what 
was  meant  for  mankind,"  or  hanging  like  sloths  on  the  "  branches 
of  the  revenue,"  or  even  engrossing  working  situations,  such  as 
gauger-ships,  to  the  exclusion  of  humbler  individuals,  who,  like 
Dogberry,  have  the  natural  gifts  of  reading  and  writing,  and 
nothing  else.  Neither  am  I  eager  to  claim  for  them  those  other 
distinctions,  titles  and  decorations,  the  dignity  of  which  requires 
a  certain  affluence  of  income  for  its  support.  A  few  orders  in- 
deed, domestic  or  foreign,  conferred  through  a  bookseller,  hang 
not  ungracefully  on  an  author,  at  the  same  time  that  they  help 
to  support  his  slender  revenue  ;  but  there  would  be  something 
too  ludicrous  even  for  my  humor,  in  a  star — and  no  coat ;  a 
Garter — and  no  stocking  ;  a  coronet — and  no  nightcap ;  a  col- 
lar— and  no  shirt !  Besides,  the  creatures  have,  like  the  glow- 
worm and  the  firefly  (but  at  the  head  instead  of  the  tail),  a  sort 
of  splendor  of  their  own,  which  makes  them  less  in  need  of  any 
adventitious  lustre.  If  I  have  dwelt  on  the  dearth  of  state 
patronage,  public  employments,  honors  and  emoluments,  it  was 
principally  to  correct  a  Vulgar  Error,  not  noticed  by  Sir  Thomas 
Browne ;  namely,  that  poets  and  their  kind  are  "  marigolds  in 
the  sun's  eye," — the  world's  favorite  and  pet  children  ;  whereas 
they  are  in  reality  its  snubbed  ones.  It  was  to  show  that  Litera- 
ture, neglected  by  the  government,  and  unprotected  by  the  law, 
was  placed  in  a  false  position  ;  whereby  its  professors  present 
such  anomalous  phenomena  as  high  priests  of  knowledge — with- 
out a  surplus  ;  enlarged  minds  in  the  King's  Bench  ;  schoolmas- 
ters obliged  to  be  abroad ;  great  scholars  without  a  knife  and 
fork  and  spoon  ;  master  minds  at  journey  work ;  moral  magis- 
trates greatly  unpaid  ;  immortals  without  a  living  ;  menders  of 
the  human  heart  breaking  their  own ;  mighty  intellects  be- 
grudged their  mite  ;  great  wits  jumping  into  nothing  good  ;  or- 
naments to  their  country  put  on  the  shelf ;  constellations  of  ge- 
nius under  a  cloud;  eminent  pens  quite  stumped  up;  great 
lights  of  the  age  with  a  thief  in  them  ;  prophets  to  booksellers  ; — 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


89 


my  ink  almost  blushes  from  black  to  red  whilst  marking  such 
associations  of  the  divine  ore  with  the  earthly — but,  methinks, 
'tis  the  metal  of  one  of  the  scales  in  which  we  are  weighed  and 
found  wanting.  Poverty  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe,  and  its 
reproach.  There  is,  for  instance,  a  well-known  taunt  against 
a  humble  class  of  men,  who  live  by  their  pens,  which,  girding 
not  at  the  quality  of  their  work,  but  the  rate  of  its  remunera- 
tion, twits  them  as  penny-a-liners !  Can  the  world  be  aware  of 
the  range  of  the  shaft  ?  What  pray,  was  glorious  John  Milton, 
apon  whom  rested  an  after-glow  of  the  holy  inspiration  of  the 
sacred  writers,  like  the  twilight  bequeathed  by  a  mid-summer  sun  ? 
Why  he  was,  as  you  may  reckon  any  time  in  his  divine  Para- 
dise Lost,  not  even  a  ha'penny-a-liner !  We  have  no  proof  that 
Shakspeare,  the  high  priest  of  humanity,  was  even  a  farthing-a- 
liner,  and  we  know  that  Homer  not  only  sold  his  lines  "  gratis 
for  nothing,"  but  gave  credit  to  all  eternity !  If  I  wrong  the 
world  I  beg  pardon — but  I  really  believe  it  invented  the  phrase 
of  the  republic  of  letters,  to  insinuate  that  taking  the  whole  lot 
of  authors  together,  they  have  not  got  a  sovereign  amongst  them  ! 

I  have  now  reduced  Literature,  as  an  arithmetician  would 
say,  to  its  lowest  terms.    I  have  shown  her  like  Misery, — 

For  Misery  is  trodden  on  by  many, 
And,  being  low,  never  relieved  by  any, — 

fairly  ragged,  beggar'd,  and  down  in  the  dust,  having  been 
robbed  of  her  last  farthing  by  a  pickpocket  (that's  a  pirate). 
There  she  sits,  like  Diggon  Davie — "  Her  was  her  while  it  was 
daylight,  but  now  her  is  a  most  wretched  wight,"  or  rather  like 
a  crazy  Kate ;  a  laughing-stock  for  the  mob  (that's  the  world); 
unprotected  by  the  constable  (that's  the  law),  threatened  by  the 
beadle  (that's  the  law  too),  repulsed  from  the  workhouse  by  the 
overseer  (that's  the  government),  and  denied  any  claim  on  the 
parish  funds.  Agricultural  distress  is  a  fool  to  it!  One  of 'those 
counterfeit  cranks,  to  quote  from  "  The  English  Rogue,"  "  such 
as  pretend  to  have  the  falling  sickness,  and  by  putting  a  piece 
of  white  soap  into  the  corner  of  their  mouths  will  make  the  froth 
come  boiling  forth,  to  cause  pity  in  the  beholders." 


90 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


If  we  inquire  into  the  causes  of  this  depression,  some  must  un- 
doubtedly be  laid  at  the  doors  of  literary  men  themselves ;  but 
perhaps  the  greater  proportion  may  be  traced  to  the  want  of  any 
definite  ideas  amongst  people  in  general,  on  the  following  par- 
ticulars : — 1.  How  an  -author  writes.  2.  Why  an  author  writes. 
3.  What  an  author  writes.  And  firstly,  as  to  how  he  writes, 
upon  which  head  there  is  a  wonderful  diversity  of  opinions  ;  one 
thinks  that  writing  is  "  as  easy  as  lying,"  and  pictures  the  au- 
thor sitting  carefully  at  his  desk  "  with  his  glove  on,"  like  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley's  poetical  ancestor.  A  second  holds  that 
"the  easiest  reading  is  d — d  hard  writing,"  and  imagines  Time 
himself  beating  his  brains  over  an  extempore.  A  third  believes 
in  inspiration,  i.  e.,  that  metaphors,  quotations,  classical  allusions, 
historical  illustrations,  and  even  dramatic  plots — all  come  to  the 
waking  author  by  intuition ;  whilst  ready-made  poems,  like 
Coleridge's  Kubla  Khan,  are  dictated  to  him  in  his  sleep.  Of 
course  the  estimate  of  his  desert  will  rise  or  fall  according  to  the 
degree  of  learned  labor  attributed  to  the  composition :  he  who 
sees  in  his  mind's  eye  a  genius  of  the  lamp,  consuming  gallons 
on  gallons  of  midnight  oil — will  assign  a  rate  of  reward,  regu- 
lated probably  by  the  success  of  the  Hull  whalers ;  whilst  the 
believer  in  inspiration  will  doubtless  conceive  that  the  author 
ought  to  be  fed  as  well  as  prompted  by  miracle,  and  accordingly 
bid  him  look  up,  like  the  apostle  on  the  old  Dutch  tiles,  for  a 
bullock  coming  down  from  heaven  in  a  bundle.  2dly.  Why  an 
author  writes ;  and  there  is  as  wide  a  patchwork  of  opinions  on 
this  head  as  on  the  former.  Some  think  that  he  writes  for  the 
present — others,  that  he  writes  for  posterity — and  a  few,  that  he 
writes  for  antiquity.  One  believes  that  he  writes  for  the  benefit 
of  the  world  in  general — his  own  excepted — which  is  the  opinion 
of  the  law.  A  second  conceives  that  he  writes  for  the  benefit  of 
booksellers  in  particular — and  this  is  the  trade's  opinion.  A 
third  takes  it  for  granted  that  he  writes  for  nobody's  benefit  but 
his  own— which  is  the  opinion  of  the  green-room.  He  is  sup- 
posed to  write  for  fame— for  money— for  amusement— for  politi- 
cal ends  and,  by  certain  schoolmasters,  "  to  improve  his  mind." 

Need  it  be  wondered  at,  that  in  this  uncertainty  as  to  his  mo- 
tives, the  world  sometimes  perversely  gives  him  anything  but 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


91 


the  thing  he  wants.  Thus  the  rich  author,  who  yearns  for  fame, 
gets  a  pension  ;  the  poor  one,  who  hungers  for  bread,  receives  a 
diploma  from  Aberdeen  ;  the  writer  for  amusement  has  the  plea- 
sure of  a  mohawking  review  in  a  periodical ;  and  the  gentleman 
in  search  of  a  place  has  an  offer  from  a  sentimental  milliner ! 
3dly.  What  an  author  writes.  The  world  is  so  much  of  a 
Champollion,  that  it  can  understand  hieroglyphics,  >if  nothing 
else ;  it  can  comprehend  outward  visible  signs,  and  grapple  with 
a  tangible  emblem.  It  knows  that  a  man  on  a  table  stands  for 
patriotism,  a  man  in  the  pulpit  for  religion,  and  so  on,  but  it  is  a 
little  obtuse  as  to  what  it  reads  in  King  Cadmus's  types.  A 
book  hangs  out  no  sign.  Thus  persons  will  go  through  a  chap- 
ter, enforcing  some  principal  duty  of  man  towards  his  Maker  or 
his  neighbor,  without  discovering  that,  in  all  but  the  name,  they 
have  been  reading  a  sermon.  A  solid  mahogany  pulpit  is  want- 
ing to  such  a  perception.  They  will  con  over  an  essay,  glowing 
with  the  most  ardent  love  of  liberty,  instinct  with  the  noblest 
patriotism?  and  replete  with  the  soundest  maxims  of  polity,  with- 
out the  remotest  notion  that,  except  its  being  delivered  upon  pa- 
per instead  of  viva  voce,  they  have  been  attending  to  a  speech. 
As  for  dreaming  of  the  author  as  a  being  who  could  sit  in  Par- 
liament, and  uphold  the  same  sentiments,  they  would  as  soon 
think  of  chairing  an  abstract  idea.  They  must  see  a  bond  fide 
wagon,  with  its  true  blue  orange  or  green  flag,  to  arrive  at  such 
a  conclusion.  The  material  keeps  the  upperhand.  Hence  the 
sight  of  a  substantial  Vicar  may  suggest  the  necessity  of  a  par- 
sonage and  a  glebe  ;  but  the  author  is,  according  to  the  proverb, 
"  out  of  sight,  out  of  mind  " — a  spirituality  not  to  be  associated 
with  such  tangible  temporalities  as  bread  and  cheese.  He  is 
condemned  par  contumace,  to  dine,  tete-a-tete,  with  the  Barme- 
cide or  Duke  Humphrey,  whilst,  for  want  of  a  visible  hustings, 
or  velvet  cushion,  the  small  still  voice  of  his  pages  is  never  con- 
ceived of  as  coming  from  a  patriot,  a  statesman,  a  priest,  or  a 
prophet.  As  a  case  in  point :  there  is  a  short  poem  by  Southey, 
called  the  "  Battle  of  Blenheim,"  which  from  the  text  of  some 
poor  fellow's  skull  who  fell  in  the  great  victory — 

For  many  a  thousand  bodies  there 
Lay  rotting  in  the  sun — 


<J2 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


takes  occasion  to  ask  what  they  killed  each  other  for  ?  and  what 
good  came  of  it  in  the  end  ?  These  few  quaint  verses  contain 
the  very  essence  of  a  primary  Quaker  doctrine  ;  yet  lacking  the 
tangible  sign — a  drab  coat  or  a  broad-brimmed  hat — no  member 
of  the  sect  ever  yet  discovered  that,  in  all  but  the  garb,  the 
peace-loving  author  was  a  Friend,  moved  by  the  spirit,  and  hold, 
ing  forth  m  verse  in  a  strain  worthy  of  the  great  Fox  himself! 
Is  such  poetry,  then,  a  vanity,  or  something  worthy  of  all  qua- 
kerly  patronage  ?  Verily,  if  the  copyright  had  been  valued  at 
a  thousand  pounds  the  Society  ought  to  have  purchased  it — 
printed- the  poem  as  a  tract — and  distributed  it  by  tens  of  thou- 
sands, yea,  hundreds  of  thousands,  till  every  fighting  man  in  the 
army  and  navy  had  a  copy,  including  the  marines.  The  So- 
ciety, however,  has  done  nothing  of  the  kind  ;  and  it  has  only 
acted  like  society  in  general  towards  literature,  by  regarding  it 
as  a  vanity  or  a  luxury  rather  than  as  a  grand  moral  engine,  ca- 
pable of  advancing  the  spiritual  as  well  as  the  temporal  interests 
of  mankind.  It  has  looked  upon  poets  and  their  kind  as  com- 
mon men,  and  not  as  spirits  that,  like  the  ascending  and  descend- 
ing angels  in  Jacob's  vision,  hold  commerce  with  the  sky  itself, 
and  help  to  maintain  the  intercourse  between  earth  and  heaven. 

I  have  yet  a  few  comments  to  offer  on  the  charges  usually  pre- 
ferred against  literary  men,  but  shall  reserve  them  for  another 
and  concluding  letter. 


LETTER  lit 

To  the  Editor  of  the  Athen^um  : 

My  dear  Sir, — Now  to  the  sins  which  have  been  laid  at  the 
doors,  or  tied  to  the  knockers,  of  literary  men  :  those  offences 
which  are  to  palliate  or  excuse  such  public  slights  and  neglects 
as  I  have  set  forth  ;  or  may  be,  such  private  ones  as  selling  a 
presentation  copy,  perhaps  a  dedicatory  one,  as  a  bookseller 
would  sell  the  Keepsake,  with  the  author's  autograph  letters— 
without  the  delizacy  of  waiting  for  his  death,  or  the  'policy  ;  for, 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPY  WRONG. 


93 


as  Crabbe  says,  one's  writings  then  fetch  a  better  price,  because 
there  can  be  no  more  of  them — at  a  sale  of  Evans's.  Literary 
men,  then,  have  been  charg^hvith  being  eccentric — and  so  are 
comets.  They  were  not  created  to  belong  to  that  mob  of  undis- 
tinguishable — call  them  not  stars,  but  sparks — constituting  the 
Milky  Way.  It  is  a  taunt,  as  old  as  Chesterfield's  Letters,  that 
they  are  not  polished — no  more  was  that  Chesterfield's  son. 
They  do  not  dress  fashionably,  for,  if  they  could  afford  it,  they 
know  better,  in  a  race  for  immortal  fame,  than  to  be  outsiders 
Some,  it  has  been  alleged,  have  run  through  their  estates,  which 
might  have  been  easily  traversed  at  a  walk  ;  and  one  and  all 
hare  neglected  to  save  half-a-crown  out  of  sixpence  a  day. 
Their  disinterestedness  has  been  called  imprudence,  and  their 
generosity  extravagance,  by  parties  who  bestow  their  charity  like 
miser  Mould.*  The  only  charge, — not  a  blank  charge, — that 
has  been  discharged  against  them,  their  poverty,  has  been  made 
a  crime,  and,  what  is  worse,  a  crime  of  their  own  seeking. 
They  have  not,  it  is  true,  been  notorious  for  hoarding  or  fund- 
ing— the  last  would,  in  fact,  require  the  creation  of  a  stock  on 
purpose  for  them — the  Short  Annuities.  They  have  never  any 
weight  in  the  city,  or  anywhere  else  ;  in  cash  temperature  their 
pockets  are  always  at  Zero.  They  are  not  the  "  warm  with," 
but  the  "  cold  without but  it  is  to  their  credit, — if  they  have 
any  credit, — that  they  have  not  worshipped  Plutus.  The  Muse 
and  Mammon  never  were  in  partnership  ;  and  it  would  be  a 
desperate  speculation  indeed  to  take  to  literature  as  the  means 
of  amassing  money.  He  would  be  a  simple  Dick  Whittington 
indeed  who  expected  to  find  its  ways  paved  with  philosopher's 
stones  ;  he  must  have  Dantzic  water,  with  its  gold  leaf  in  his 
head,  who  thinks  to  find  Castaly  a  Pactolus  ;  ass  indeed  must  he 
be  who  dreams  of  browsing  on  Parnassus,  like  those  asses  which 
feed  on  an  herb — (a  sort  of  mint !) — that  turns  their  very  teeth 
to  gold.    A  line-maker,  gifted  with  brains  the  gods  have  made 

*  An  illiterate  personage,  who  always  volunteered  to  go  round  with  the 
hat,  but  was  suspected  of  sparing  his  own  pocket.  Overhearing,  one  day, 
a  hint  to  that  effect,  he  made  the  following  speech  : — "  Other  gentlemen 
puts  down  what  they  thinks  proper,  and  so  do  I.  Charity's  a  private  con- 
cern, and  what  I  gives  is  nothing  to  nobody." 


94 


PROSE  AND  VERSE; 


poetical,  has  no  chance  of  making  an  independence — like  Cogia 
Hassan  Alhabbal,  the  rope-maker,  gifted  only  with  a  lump  of 
lead.  Look  into  any  palm,  and^Pit  contain  the  lines  of  poetry, 
the  owner's  fortune  may  be  foretold  at  once — viz.,  a  hill  very 
hard  to  climb,  and  no  prospect  in  life  from  the  top.  It  is  not 
always  even  a  Mutton  Hill,  Garlic  Hill,  or  Cornhill  (remember 
Otway),  for  meat,  vegetable,  or  bread.  Let  the  would-be  Croe- 
sus then  take  up  a  Bank  pen,  and  address  himself  to  the  Old 
Lady  in  Threadneedle  Street,  but  not  to  the  Muse  :  she  may 
give  him  some  "  pinch-back,"  and  pinch-front  too,  but  little  of 
the  precious  metals.  Authorship  has  been  pronounced,  by  a 
judge  on  the  bench,  as  but  a  hand-to-mouth  business  ,  and  I 
believe  few  have  ever  set  up  in  it  as  anything  else :  in  fact,  did 
not  Crabbe,  though  a  reverend,  throw  a  series  of  summersets,  at 
least  mentally,  on  the  receipt  of  a  liberal  sum  from  a  liberal 
publisher,  as  if  he  had  just  won  the  capital  prize  in  the  grand 
lottery  ?  Need  it  be  wondered  at,  then,  if  men  who  embrace 
literature  more  for  love  than  for  lucre,  should  grasp  the  adven- 
titious coins  somewhat  loosely  ;  nay,  purposely  scatter  abroad, 
like  Boaz,  a  liberal  portion  of  their  harvest  for  those  gleaners, 
with  whom  they  have,  perhaps,  had  a  hand-and-glove  acquaint- 
ance— Poverty  and  Want  ?  If  there  be  the  lively  sympathy  of 
the  brain  with  the  stomach  that  physiologists  have  averred,  it  is 
more  than  likely  that  there  is  a  similar  responsive  sensibility 
between  the  head  and  the  heart ;  it  would  be  inconsistent,  there- 
fore it  would  be  unnatural,  if  the  same  fingers  that  help  to  trace 
the  woes  of  human  life  were  but  as  so  many  feelers  of  the  poly- 
pus Avarice,  grasping  everything  within  reach,  and  retaining  it 
when  got.  We,  know,  on  the  contrary,  that  the  hand  of  the 
author  of  the  "  Village  Poor  House  "  was  "  open  as  day  to  melt- 
ing charity;"  so  was  the  house  of  Johnson  munificent  in  pro- 
portion to  his  means  ;  and  as  for  Goldsmith,  he  gave  more  like 
a  rich  citizen  of  the  world  than  one  who  had  not  always  his  own 
freedom. 

But  graver  charges  than  improvidence  have  been  brought 
against  the  literary  character — want  of  principle,  and  offences 
against  morality  and  religion.  It  might  be  answered,  pleading 
guilty,  that  in  that  case  authors  have  only  topped  the  parts 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


95 


allotted  to  them  in  the  great  drama  of  life — that  they  have  sim- 
ply acted  like  vagabonds  by  law,  and  scamps  by  repute,  "  who 
have  no  character  to  lose,  or  property  to  protect but  I  prefer 
asserting,  which  I  do  fearlessly,  that  literary  men,  as  a  body, 
will  bear  comparison  in  point  of  conduct  with  any  other  class. 
It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  they  are  subjected  to  an  ordeal 
quite  peculiar,  and  scarcely  milder  than  the  Inquisition.  The 
lives  of  literary  men  are  proverbially  barren  of  incident,  and 
consequently,  the  most  trivial  particulars,  the  most  private 
affairs,  are  unceremoniously  worked  up,  to  furnish  matter  for 
their  bald  biographies.    Accordingly,  as  soon  as  an  author  is 
defunct,  his  character  is  submitted  to  a  sort  of  Egyptian  post- 
mortem trial ;  or  rather,  a  moral  inquest,  with  Paul  Pry  for  the 
coroner,  and  a  Judge  of  Assize,  a  Commissioner  of  Bankrupts,  a 
Jew  broker,  a  Methodist  parson,  a  dramatic  licenser,  a  dancing- 
master,  a  master  of  the  ceremonies,  a  rat-catcher,  a  bone  collec- 
tor, a  parish  clerk,  a  schoolmaster,  and  a  reviewer,  for  a  jury. 
It  is  the  province  of  these  personages  to  rummage,  ransack, 
scrape  together,  rake  up,  ferret  out,  sniff,  detect,  analyze,  and 
appraise,  all  particulars  of  the  birth,  parentage,  and  education, 
life,  character  and  behavior,  breeding,  accomplishments,  opi- 
nions, and  literary  performances,  of  the  departed.    Secret  draw- 
ers are  searched,  private  and  confidential  letters  published,  manu- 
scripts, intended  for  the  fire,  are  set  up  in  type,  tavern  bills  and 
washing  bills  are  compared  with  their  receipts,  copies  of  writs 
re-copied,  inventories  taken  of  effects,  wardrobe  ticked  off  by  the 
tailor's  account,  by-gone  toys  of  youth — billets-doux,  snuff-boxes, 
canes — exhibited,  discarded  hobby-horses  are  trotted  out, — per- 
haps even  a  dissecting  surgeon  is  called  in  to  draw  up  a  minute 
report  of  the  state  of  the  corpse  and  its  viscera  :  in  short,  nothing 
is  spared  that  can  make  an  item  for  the  clerk  to  insert  in  his 
memoir.    Outrageous  as  it  may  seem,  this  is  scarcely  an  exag- 
geration— for  example :  who  will  dare  to  say  that  we  do  not 
know,  at  this  very  hour,  more  of  Goldsmith's  affairs  than  he 
ever  did  himself?    It  is  rather  wonderful,  than  otherwise,  that 
the  literary  character  should  shine  out  as  it  does  after  such  a 
severe  scrutiny.    Moreover,  it  remains  yet  to  be  proved  that  the 
follies  and  failings  attributed  to  men  of  learning  and  genius  are 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


any  more  their  private  property  than  their  copyrights  after  they 
have  expired.  There  are  certain  well-educated  ignorant  people 
who  contend  that  a  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing — for  the 
poor ;  and  as  authors  are  poor,  as  a  class,  these  horn-book  mo- 
nopolists may  feel  bound,  in  consistency,  to  see  that  the  common 
errors  of  humanity  are  set  down  in  the  bill  to  letters.  It  is,  of 
course,  the  black  and  white  schoolmaster's  dogs  in  a  manger 
that  bark  and  growl  at  the  slips  and  backslidings  of  literary  men  ; 
but  to  decant  such  cant,  and  see  through  it  clearly,  it  is  only 
necessary  to  remember  that  a  fellow  will  commit  half  the  sins 
in  the  Decalogue,  and  all  the  crimes  in  the  Calendar — forgery 
excepted — without  ever  having  composed  even  a  valentine  in 
verse,  or  the  description  of  a  lost  gelding  in  prose.  Finally,  if 
the  misdeeds  of  authors  are  to  be  pleaded  in  excuse  of  the  neg- 
lect of  literature  and  literary  men,  it  would  be  natural  to  expect 
to  see  these  practical  slights  and  snubbings  falling  heaviest  on 
those  who  have  made  themselves  most  obnoxious  to  rebuke. 
But  the  contrary  is  the  case.  I  will  not  invidiously  point  out 
examples,  but  let  the  reader  search  the  record,  and  he  will  find, 
that  the  lines  which  have  fallen  in  pleasant  places  have  belonged 
to  men  distinguished  for  anything  rather  than  morality  or  piety. 
The  idea,  then,  of  merit  having  anything  to  do  with  the  medals, 
must  be  abandoned,  or  we  must  be  prepared  to  admit  a  very 
extraordinary  result.  It  is  notorious,  that  a  foreign  bird,  for  a 
night's  warbling,  will  obtain  as  much  as  a  native  bard — not  a 
second-rate  one  either — can  realize  in  a  whole  year  :  an  actor 
will  be  paid  a  sum  per  night  equal  to  the  annual  stipend  of  many 
a  curate  ;  and  the  twelvemonth's  income  of  an  opera-dancer  will 
exceed  the  revenue  of  a  dignitary  of  the  church.  But  will  any 
one  be  bold  enough  to  say,  except  satirically,  that  these  dispro- 
portionate emoluments  are  due  to  the  superior  morality  and  piety 
of  the  concert-room,  the  opera,  and  the  theatre?  They  are,  in 
a  great  measure,  the  acknowledgments  of  physical  gifts — a  well 
tuned  larynx — a  well-turned  figure,  or  light  fantastic  toes,  not 
at  all  discountenanced  in  their  vocation  for  being  associated  with 
light  fantastic  behavior.  Saving,  then,  an  imputed  infirmity  of 
temper — and  has  it  not  peculiar  trials  ? — the  only  well-grounded 
failing  the  world  has  to  resent,  as  a  characteristic  of  literary 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


91 


men,  is  their  poverty,  whether  the  necessary  result  of  their  po- 
sition, or  of  a  wilful  neglect  of  their  present  interests,  and  im- 
providence for  the  future.  But  what  is  an  author's  future,  as 
regards  his  worldly  prosperity?  The  law,  as  if  judging  him 
incapable  of  having  heirs,  absolutely  prevents  his  creating  a 
property,  in  copyrights,  that  might  be  valuable  to  his  descen- 
dants. It  declares,  that  the  interest  of  the  literary  man  and 
literature  are  not  identical,  and  commends  him  to  the  composi- 
tion of  catch-penny  works — things  of  the  day  and  hour  ;  or,  so 
to  speak,  encourages  him  to  discount  his  fame.  Should  he,  let 
ting  the  present  shift  for  itself,  and  contemning  personal  priva- 
tions, devote  himself,  heart  and  soul,  to  some  great  work  or 
series  of  works,  he  may  live  to  see  his  right  and  temporal  inte- 
rest in  his  books  pass  away  from  himself  to  strangers,  and  his 
children  deprived  of  what,  as  well  as  his  fame,  is  their  just 
inheritance.  At  the  best  he  must  forego  the  superintendance  of 
the  publication  and  any  foretaste  of  his  success,  and  like  Cum- 
berland, when  he  contemplated  a  legacy  "  for  the  eventual  use 
and  advantage  of  a  beloved  daughter,"  defer  the  printing  of  his 
MSS.  till  after  his  decease.  As  for  the  present  tense  of  his 
prosperity,  I  have  shown  that  his  possession  is  as  open  to  inroad 
as  any  estate  on  the  Border  Land  in  days  of  yore  ;  such  is  the 
legal  providence  that  watches  over  his  imputed  improvidence  ! 
The  law,  which  takes  upon  itself  to  guard  the  interest  of  lunatics, 
idiots,  minors,  and  other  parties  incapable  of  managing  their 
own  affairs,  not  merely  neglects  to  commonly  protect,  but  con- 
nives at  the  dilapidation  of  the  property  of  a  class  popularly  sup- 
posed to  have  a  touch  of  that  same  incompetence.  It  is,  per- 
haps, rather  the  indifference  of  a  generous  spirit,  which  remem- 
bers to  forget  its  own  profit ;  but  even  in  that  case,  if  the  author, 
like  the  girl  in  the  fairy  tale,  drops  diamonds  and  pearls  from 
his  lips,  without  stooping  to  pick  up  any  for  himself,  the  world 
he  enriches  is  bound  to  see  that  he  does  not  suffer  from  such  a 
noble  disinterestedness.  Suppose  even  that  he  be  a  man  wide 
awake  to  the  value  of  money,  the  power  it  confers,  the  luxuries 
it  may  purchase,  the  consideration  it  commands — that  he  is 
anxious  to  make  the  utmost  of  his  literary  industry — and  literary 
labor  is  as  worthy  of  its  hire  as  any  other — there  is  no  just  prin- 
Part  ii.  8 


98 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


ciple  on  which  he  can  be  denied  the  same  protection  as  any  othe? 
trader.  It  may  happen,  also,  that  his  "  poverty,  and  not  his 
will,"  consents  to  such  a  course.  In  this  imperfect  world  there 
is  nothing  without  its  earthly  alloy  ;  and,  whilst  the  mind  of  the 
poet  is  married  to  a  body,  he  must  perform  the  divine  service  of 
the  muses  without  banishing  his  dinner-service  to  the  roof  of  the 
house,  as  in  that  Brazilian  cathedral,  which,  for  want  of  lead,  is 
tiled  with  plates  and  dishes  from  the  Staffordshire  potteries.  He 
cannot  dwell  even  in  the  temple  of  Parnassus,  but  must  lodge 
sometimes  in  an  humbler  abode,  like  the  old  Scotch  songsters, 

With  bread  and  cheese  for  its  door-cheeks. 
And  pancakes  the  rigging  o't 

Moreover,  as  authors — Protestant  ones,  at  least — are  ^ot  vowed 
to  celibacy,  however  devoted  to  poverty,  fasting  and  mortifica- 
tion, there  may  chance  to  exist  other  little  corporealities,  sprouts,, 
off-sets,  or  suckers,  which  the  nature  of  the  law,  as  well  as  the 
law  of  nature,  refers  for  sustenance  to  the  parent  trunk. 
Should  our  bards,  jealous  of  these  evidences  of  their  mortafity, 
offer  to  make  a  present  of  them  to  the  parish,  under  the  plea  of 
the  mens  divinior,  would  not  the  overseer,  or  may  be  the  Poor 
Law  Commissioners,  shut  the  workhouse  wicket  in  their  faces,, 
and  tell  them  that  "  the  mens  divinior  must  provide  for  the 
men's  wives  and  children?"  Pure  fame  is  a  glorious  draught 
enough,  and  the  striving  for  it  is  a  noble  ambition  ;  but,  alas  ! 
few  can  afford  to  drink  it  neat.  Across  the  loftiest  visions  of 
the  poet  earthly  faces  will  flit ;  and  even  whilst  he  is  gazing  on 
Castaly  little  familiar  voices  will  murmur  in  his  ear,  inquiring 
if  there  are  no  fishes  that  can  be  eaten  to  be  caught  in  its  waters  ! 

It  has  happened,  according  to  some  inscrutable  dispensation, 
that  the  mantle  of  inspiration  has  commonly  descended  on  shoul- 
ders clad  in  cloth  of  the  humblest  texture.  Our  poets  have  been 
Scotch  ploughmen,  farmers'  boys,  Northamptonshire  peasants, 
shoe-makers,  old  servants,  milk-women,  basket-makers,  steel- 
workers,  charity-boys,  and  the  like.  Pope's  protege,  Dodsley, 
was  a  footman,  and  wrote  "  The  Muse  in  Livery  " — you  may 
trace  a  hint  of  the  double  vocation  in  his  "  Economy  of  Human 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


99 


Life."*  Our  men  of  learning  and  genius  have  generally  been 
born,  not  with  silver  spoons  in  their  mouths,  but  wooden  ladles. 
Poetry,  Goldsmith  says,  not  only  found  him  poor,  but  kept  him 
so  ;  but  has  not  the  law  been  hitherto  lending  a  hand  in  the 
same  uncharitable  task  ?  Has  it  not  favored  the  "  Cormorants 
by  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  " — the  native  Bookaneer  ? — and  "  a 
plague  the  Devil  hath  added,"  as  Sir  J.  Overbury  calls  the  for- 
eign  pirate. 

To  give  a  final  illustration  of  the  working  of  the  Law  of  Copy- 
right, Sir  Walter  Scott,  besides  being  a  mighty  master  of  fiction, 
resembles  Defoe  in  holding  himself  bound  to  pay  in  full  all  the 
liabilities  he  had  incurred.  But  the  amount  was  immense,  and 
he  died,  no  doubt  prematurely,  from  the  magnitude  of  the  effort. 
A  genius  so  illustrious,  united  with  so  noble  a  spirit  of  integrity, 
doubly  deserved  a  national  monument,  and  a  subscription  was 
opened  for  the  purpose  of  preserving  Abbotsford  to  his  posterity, 
instead  of  a  public  grant  to  make  it  a  literary  Blenheim.  I  will 
not  stop  to  inquire  whether  there  was  more  joy  in  France  when 
Malbrook  was  dead  than  sorrow  in  Britain,  or  rather  through- 
out the  world,  when  Scott  was  no  more ;  but  I  must  point  out 
the  striking  contrast  between  two  advertisements  in  a  periodical 
paper  which  courted  my  notice  on  the  same  page.  One  was  a 
statement  of  the  amount  of  the  Abbotsford  subscription,  the  other 
an  announcement  of  a  rival  edition  of  one  of  Sir  Walter's  works, 
the  copyright  of  which  had  expired.  Every  one  may  not  feel 
with  me  the  force  of  this  juxtaposition,  but  I  could  not  help 
thinking  that  the  interest  of  any  of  his  immortal  productions 
ought  to  have  belonged  either  to  the  creditors  or  to  the  heritage. 
Can  there  be  heir-looms,  I  asked  myself,  and  not  head-looms  ? — 
and  looms,  too,  that  have  woven  such  rich  tissues  of  romance  ? 
Why  is  a  mental  estate,  any  more  than  a  landed  one,  made  sub- 
ject to  such  an  Agrarian  law  ? 

In  spite  of  all  my  knowledge  of  ethics,  and  all  my  ignorance 
of  law,  I  have  never  yet  been  able  to  answer  these  questions  to 
my  own  satisfaction.    Perchance  Mr.  Serjeant  Talfourd  will  be 

*  The  man  of  emulation,  who  panteth  after  fame.  "  The  example  of 
eminent  men  are  in  his  visions  by  night — and  his  delight  is  to  follow  them 
(query,  with  a  gold-headed  cane  ?)  all  the  day  long." 


100 


lJROSE  AND  VERSE. 


prepared  with  a  solution,  but,  if  not,  I  trust  he  will  give  us 
"  the  benefit  of  the  doubt,"  and  make  an  author's  copyright 
heritable  property,  only  subject  to  alienation  by  his  own  act,  or 
in  satisfaction  of  the  claims  of  creditors.  Such  a  measure  will 
tend  to  retrieve  our  worldly  respectability :  instead  of  being 
nobodys  with  nothing,  we  shall  be,  if  not  freeholders,  a  sort  of 
copyholders,  with  something  between  the  sky  and  the  centre, 
that  we  can  call  our  own.  It  may  be  but  a  nominal  possession, 
but  if  it  were  of  any  value,  why  should  it  be  made  common  for 
the  benefit  of  the  Company  of  Stationers  ?  They  drink  enough 
out  of  our  living  heads,  without  quaffing  out  of  our  skulls,  like 
the  kings  of  Dahomey.  As  to  the  probability  of  their  revivals  of 
authors  who  were  adored,  but  have  fallen  into  neglect  and  ob- 
livion,— remembering  how  the  trade  boggled  at  Robinson  Crusoe, 
and  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield — there  would  be  as  much  chance  of 
a  speculative  lawyer  reviving  such  dormant  titles.  For  my  own 
part,  I  am  far  from  expecting,  personally,  any  pecuniary  advan- 
tages from  such  an  arrangement ;  but  I  have  some  regard  for 
the  abstract  right.  There  is  always  a  certain  sense  of  humilia- 
tion, attendant  on  finding  that  we  are  made  exceptions,  as  if  in- 
capable or  undeserving  of  the  enjoyment  of  equal  justice.  And 
can  there  be  a  more  glaring  anomaly  than  that,  whilst  our  pri- 
vate property  is  thrown  open  and  made  common,  we  daily  see 
other  commons  enclosed,  and  made  private  property  ?  One 
thing  is  certain,  that,  by  taking  this  high  ground  at  once,  and 
making  copyright  analogous  in  tenure  to  the  soil  itself — and  it 
pays  its  land  tax  in  the  shape  of  a  tax  upon  paper — its  defence 
may  be  undertaken  with  a  better  grace,  against  trespass  at 
home,  or  invasion  from  abroad.  For,  after  all,  what  does  the 
pirate  or  Bookaneer  commit  at  present,  but  a  sort  of  practical 
anachronism,  by  anticipating  a  period  when  the  right  of  printing 
will  belong  to  everybody  in  the  world,  including  the  man  in  the 
moon ! 

Such,  it  appears  to  me,  is  the  grand  principle  upon  which  the 
future  law  of  copyright  ought  to  be  based.  I  am  aware  that  I 
have  treated  the  matter  somewhat  commercially  :  but  I  have 
done  so,  partly  because  in  that  light  principally  the  legislature 
will  have  to  deal  with  it ;  and  still  more,  because  it  is  desirable, 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


101 


for  the  sake  of  literature  and  literary  men,  that  they  should  have 
every  chance  of  independence,  rather  than  be  compelled  to  look 
to  extraneous  sources  for  their  support.  Learning  and  genius, 
worthily  directed  and  united  to  common  industry,  surely  deserve, 
at  least,  a  competence  ;  and  that  their  possessors  should  be  some- 
thing better  than  a  Jarkman  ;  that  is  to  say,  "  one  who  can  write 
and  read,  yea,  some  of  them  have  a  smattering  in  the  Latin 
tongue,  which  learning  of  theirs  advances  them  in  office  amongst 
the  beggars"  The  more  moderate  in  proportion  the  rate  of  their 
usual  reward,  the  more  scrupulously  ought  every  particle  of 
their  interests  to  be  promoted  and  protected,  so  as  to  spare,  if 
possible,  the  necessity  of  private  benefactions  or  public  collec- 
tions for  the  present  distress,  and  "  Literary  Retreats  "  for  the 
future.  Let  the  weight  and  worth  of  literature  in  the  state  be 
formally  recognized  by  the  legislature : — let  the  property  of 
authors  be  protected,  and  the  upholding  of  the  literary  character 
will  rest  on  their  heads.  They  will,  perhaps,  recollect  that  their 
highest  office  is  to  make  the  world  wiser  and  better  ;  their  low- 
est, to  entertain  and  amuse  it  without  making  it  worse.  For 
the  rest,  bestow  on  literary  men  their  fair  share  of  public  honors 
and  employments, — concede  to  them,  as  they  deserve,  a  distin- 
guished rank  in  the  social  system,  and  they  will  set  about  effacing 
such  blots  as  now  tarnish  their  scutcheons.  The  surest  way  to 
make  a  class  indifferent  to  reputation  is  to  give  it  a  bad  name. 
Hence  Literature  having  been  publicly  underrated,  and  its  pro- 
fessors having  been  treated  as  vagabonds,  scamps,  fellows  "  with- 
out character  to  lose  or  property  to  protect,"  we  have  seen  con- 
duct to  match, — reviewers,  forgetful  of  common  courtesy,  com- 
mon honesty,  and  common  charity,  misquoting,  misrepresenting, 
and  indulging  in  the  grossest  personalities,  even  to  the  extent  of 
ridiculing  bodily  defects  and  infirmities — political  partizans  ban- 
dying scurrilous  names,  and  scolding  like  Billingsgate  mermaids 
— and  authors  so  far  trampling  on  the  laws  of  morals,  and  the 
rights  of  private  life,  as  to  write  works  capable  of  being  puffed 
off  as  club  books  got  up  amongst  the  Snakes,  Sneerwells,  Can- 
dors, and  Backbites,  of  the  School  for  Scandal. 

And  now,  before  I  close,  I  will  here  place  on  record  my  own 
obligations  to  Literature  :  a  debt  so  immense,  as  not  to  be  can- 


102 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


celled,  like  that  of  nature,  by  death  itself.  I  owe  to  it  something 
more  than  my  earthly  welfare.  Adrift  early  in  life  upon  the 
great  waters — as  pilotless  as  Wordsworth's  blind  boy  afloat,  in 
the  turtle-shell — if  I  did  not  come  to  shipwreck,  it  was,  that,  in 
default  of  paternal  or  fraternal  guidance,  I  was  rescued,  like  the 
ancient  mariner,  by  guardian  spirits,  "  each  one  a  lovely  light," 
who  stood  as  beacons  to  my  course.  Infirm  health,  and  a  natu- 
ral love  of  reading,  happily  threw  me,  instead  of  worse  society, 
into  the  company  of  poets,  philosophers,  and  sages — to  me  good 
angels  and  ministers  of  grace.  From  these  silent  instructors — 
who  often  do  more  than  fathers,  and  always  more  than  godfath- 
ers, for  our  temporal  and  spiritual  interests, — from  these  mild 
monitors — no  importunate  tutors,  teazing  Mentors,  moral  task- 
masters, obtrusive  advisers,  harsh  censors,  or  wearisome  lectur- 
ers— But,  delightful  associates, — I  learned  something  of  the  di- 
vine, and  more  of  the  human  religion.  They  were  my  interpre- 
ters in  the  House  Beautiful  of  God,  and  my  guides  among  the 
Delectable  Mountains  of  Nature.  They  reformed  my  prejudi- 
ces, chastened  my  passions,  tempered  my  heart,  purified  my 
tastes,  elevated  my  mind,  and  directed  my  aspirations.  I  was 
lost  in  a  chaos  of  undigested  problems,  false  theories,  crude 
fancies,  obscure  impulses,  and  bewildering  doubts — when  these 
bright  intelligences  called  my  mental  world  out  of  darkness  like 
a  new  creation,  and  gave  it  "  two  great  lights,"  Hope  and 
Memory — the  past  for  a  moon,  and  the  future  for  a  sun. 

Hence  have  I  genial  seasons — hence  have  I 

Smooth  passions,  smooth  discourse,  and  joyous  thoughts; 

And  thus  from  day  to  day  my  little  boat 

Rocks  in  its  harbor,  lodging  peaceably. 

Blessings  be  with  them,  and  eternal  praise, 

Who  gave  us  nobler  loves  and  nobler  cares, 

The  poets,  who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs 

Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  lays  ! 

Oh  !  might  my  name  be  number'd  among  theirs, 

How  gladly  would  I  end  my  mortal  days. 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


108 


LETTER  IV 

To  the  Editor  of  the  Athen^um  : 

Five  years  ago  I  ventured  in  your  popular  journal  to  publish 
my  private  thoughts  on  the  nature  and  laws  of  Literary  Property. 
In  those  letters,  without  underrating  the  International  Question, 
it  was  recommended  that  we  should  begin  at  home,  and  first 
establish  what  Copyright  is  in  Britain,  and  provide  for  its  pro- 
tection against  Native  Pirates  or  Bookaneers.  It  was  contended, 
therefore,  that  the  author's  perpetual  property  in  his  works 
should  be  formally  recognized,  and  that  "  by  taking  this  high 
ground  at  once,  and  making  Copyright  analogous  in  tenure  to 
the  soil  itself,  its  defence  might  be  undertaken  with  a  better 
grace  against  trespass  at  home  or  invasion  from  abroad." 

The  fate  of  the  Bill  subsequently  framed  by  Serjeant  Talfourd 
is  well  known.  An  opposition  was  set  up  by  publishers,  sta- 
tioners, binders,  printers,  journeymen,  devils,  and  hawkers  ;  and 
Mr.  Tegg  even  so  far  discomposed  himself  as  to  compose  a 
pamphlet,  in  which  the  earnings  and  emoluments  of  Scott,  Byron, 
Moore,  Southey,  Hook,  &c,  were  summed  up  as  if  they  had  been 
so  many  great  sinecurists  fattening  in  idleness  at  the  cost  of  our 
dear  public.  Messrs.  Wakley  and  Warburton  chimed  in  with 
the  pamphleteer,  and  even  one  or  two  country  gentlemen,  who 
had  set  their  ridge  and  furrow  faces  against  cheap  food  for  the 
body,  were  all  in  favor  of  cheap  food  for  the  mind,  as  if  it  were 
desirable  to  see  the  public  like  a  huge  ricketty  child  with  its 
head  a  great  deal  bigger  than  its  belly.  Nevertheless,  even 
this  opposition  might  have  failed  if  the  tone  of  the  House  had 
remained  at  its  original  pitch.  The  eloquent  speech  of  the 
learned  Serjeant,  on  introducing  his  Bill,  had  a  thrilling  effect. 
And  when  he  ceased,  "  those  airy  tongues  that  syllable  men's 
names  "  filled  up  the  pause,  till  the  very  walls  seemed  whisper- 
ing "  Chaucer  !"  "  Spenser  !"  "  Shakspeare  I"  "  Milton  !"  whilst 
sadder  echoes  responded  with  Chatterton,  Otway,  and  Burns! 
Every  head  with  a  heart  to  it,  and  every  heart  with  a  head  to 
it,  answered  to  the  appeal.  The  accomplished  nobleman,  the 
gentleman  of  cultivated  mind,  the  man  of  taste,  the  well-educat- 
ed commoners,  at  once  acknowledged,  as  debts  of  honor,  their 


104 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


deep  obligations  to  literature.  They  recalled  with  affectionate 
interest  and  honorable  respect  the  poets  of  their  youth  and  the 
philosophers  of  their  manhood — their  intimates  of  the  closet — 
their  familiars  of  the  fields  and  forests — the  intellectual  minis- 
ters from  whom  they  had  derived  amusement  in  leisure,  wisdom 
in  action,  society  in  solitude,  and  consolation  in  travel.  They 
remembered  the  friends  of  their  souls.  Even  the  opponents  of 
the  measure  confessed  the  national  importance  and  value  of  lite- 
rature, and  its  beneficial  influence  on  the  community,  by  their 
very  struggles  to  make  it  cheap  for  the  public  at  the  expense  of 
all  liberal  feeling  and  common  justice.  Moreover,  tLe  question 
involved,  more  or  less,  nearly  the  hereditary  principle — the  law 
of  property — the  nature  of  freehold  and  copyhold — the  protec- 
tion of  a  native  interest — and,  in  some  opinions,  the  national 
honor.  But,  alas !  the  argument  had  fallen  on  evil  days !  The 
question  did  not  suit  the  temper  of  the  times  or  the  ordinary  tone 
of  the  place.  It  contained  no  political  Ode  to  the  Passions. 
There  was  no  ardent  overproof  unrectified  party  spirit  in  it  to 
excite  a  parliamentary  delirium  tremens.  There  was  no  side- 
bone  of  contention  for  Whig  or  Tory.  It  was  a  subject  whereon 
political  Montagues  and  Capulets  might  shake  hands.  Faction 
overcame  Fiction.  The  accomplished  nobleman,  the  gentleman 
of  cultivated  mind,  the  man  of  taste,  the  well  educated  commo- 
ners had  other  fish  to  fry — hotter  broils  and  stews  to  arrange — 
and  their  gratitude  and  good  will  to  literature  chilled  as  rapidly 
as  mutton  gravy  on  a  cold  plate  I 

Since  then,  the  reprinting  of  English  works  in  America  has 
progressed  with  steam  celerity  :  whilst  the  King  of  the  Belgians 
has  openly  recommended  this  literary  piracy  to  his  subjects,  as 
a  profitable  branch  of  the  national  industry  : — a  speech,  by  the 
way,  for  which  his  Majesty  deserves  an  especial  address  from  our 
literati,  whenever  he  thinks  proper  to  revisit  this  country.  The 
importation  of  the  foreign  reprints  has  also  increased,  and  to  an 
extent  that  has  made  our  publishers  quite  as  alarmed  as  the 
farmers  and  graziers,  when  they  recently  fancied  themselves  sur- 
rounded by  outlandish  bulls  of  Bashan,  and  bellowed  out  for 
protection  against  foreign  oxen,  all  ready  to  invade  Smithfield, 
and  drive  our  own  beasts,  without  drovers,  clean  out  of  the  mar 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


105 


ket.  But  our  author  feeders  have  more  cause  for  alarm  than 
the  cattle  breeders,  inasmuch  as  it  appears  that  the  foreign  bul- 
locks, though  invited,  will  not  come  in,  whereas  the  foreign  books 
will  enter  in  spite  of  being  forbidden. 

In  this  extremity,  Lord  Mahon  has  opportunely  brought  for 
ward  a  new  bill,  which  has  been  supported  by  authors  and  book- 
sellers with  a  harmony  as  strange  as  pleasant — a  harmony  not 
so  attributable,  I  fear,  to  Wilhem's  system,  or  Mr.  Hullah's  vo- 
cal exercises  for  singing  in  tune,  as  to  the  fact  that  the  voices 
of  the  literati  form  a  powerful  and  welcome  addition  to  Jie  cry 
set  up  for  protection  against  foreign  piracy.  On  the  extension 
of  the  term  of  Copyright,  the  trade  is  now  liberally  indifferent, 
but  extremely  anxious  for  some  very  stringent  enactment  to  stop 
the  smuggling  of  piratical  reprints — and,  of  course,  with  a  re- 
trospective clause,  which  shall  prohibit  Flemish,  French,  or 
American  impressions  of  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  as  well  as  of 
Harry  Lorrequer  or  Zanoni.  And  why  not  a  retrospective  clause 
— for  how  is  a  man  to  protect  his  property  if  he  may  not  shoot 
into  the  back  garden  as  well  as  into  the  forecourt  ?  Provided 
always,  that  the  grounds  in  the  rear  be  really  the  property,  or 
at  least  in  the  legal  occupation  of  the  man  with  the  blunderbuss. 
Of  which  more  hereafter. 

In  the  meantime,  the  new  bill  has  not  been  discussed,  in  either 
House,  without  some  opposition  to  its  provisions,  and,  as  usual, 
especially  directed  against  the  section  intended  for  the  benefit 
of  the  author.  In  the  Commons,  up  jumped  Mr.  Wakley — per- 
haps a  Coroner  accustomed  to  violent  and  sudden  deaths  could 
not  relish  anything  expiring  so  deliberately  as  with  forty-two 
years'  notice — however,  up  jumped  Mr.  Wakley,  as  vicious  with 
poetry  and  poets  as  if  he  had  just  been  kicked  by  Pegasus,  or 
rejected  in  turn  by  all  the  Nine  Sisters, — and  after  a  flagrant 
assault  on  the  Bard  of  Rydal,  behind  the  back  of  Mr.  Words- 
worth, protested  vehemently  against  any  further  protection  of 
good-for-nothing  books.  As  if,  forsooth,  our  dear  public  could 
be  injured  by  even  a  perpetual  copyright  in  works  which  no- 
body but  the  author  would  ever  think  of  reprinting  !  These 
good-for-nothing  writers,  it  has  been  fashionable  to  estimate  as 
ninety-nine  out  of  one  hundred,  and,  admitting  the  proportion, 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


what  is  to  become  of  the  rara  avis,  the  phoenix,  the  one  of  a 
hundred  ?  Is  he  to  receive  no  reward  or  encouragement  which 
may  stimulate  others  to  go  and  do  likewise  ?  Let  us  suppose  a 
school  kept  by  Doctor  Posterity,  and  which  offers,  as  usual,  a 
prize  for  the  best  scholar.  The  term  is  at  an  end,  the  reward 
is  to  be  conferred,  and  the  best  boy  of  a  hundred  is  desired  to 
step  forward.  "  Master  Scott,"  says  the  Doctor,  "  it  is  my  pleas- 
ing task  to  inform  you  that  you  have  won  the  highest  prize  in 
this  Classical  Establishment.  The  talents  bestowed  on  you 
have  not  been  abused  or  neglected.  Your  genius  has  been 
equalled  by  your  industry,  and  your  performances  have  given 
universal  satisfaction.  Your  themes  and  essays  in  original  com- 
position have  particularly  excited  my  admiration  and  approba- 
tion :  I  have  read  them  with  interest  and  delight.  Master  Scott, 
I  have  had  few  boys  like  you.  You  are  an  honor  to  the  school, 
as  you  will  be  an  ornament  to  your  age  and  country.  I  have 
no  difficulty  in  awarding  the  first  prize  intended  for  the  en- 
couragement of  genius  and  learning.  Behold  this  large  gold 
medal !  It  is  eminently  your  due.  You  have  richly  earned  it 
— but,  mind,  I'm  not  going  to  give  it  you,  and  for  this  reason, 
that  all  your  ninety-nine  school-fellows,  put  together,  are  not 
worth  a  dump !" 

Is  this  the  way  to  encourage  the  production  of  standard  works, 
and  to  improve  the  breed  of  authors  ?  Is  it  on  this  system  that 
we  have  sought  to  improve  the  breed  of  horses,  horned  cattle, 
and  pigs  ?  Is  a  prize  ox  ever  denied  the  prize  because  there 
are  so  many  lean  beasts  in  the  market  ?  Would  Boz,  Ivanhoe, 
or  Satirist  be  refused  the  gold  cup  at  Ascot,  because  Dunce, 
Tony  Lumkin,  or  King  Log  had  been  distanced  in  the  race  ? 
Is  it  thus  that  merit  is  rewarded  in  other  countries  ?  My  tra- 
velled readers  have  doubtless  seen  what  is  called,  in  France,  a 
Mat  de  Cocagne — a  tall  well-greased  pole — "  Ah,  who  can  tell 
how  hard  it  is  to  climb!"  with  some  public  prize  at  the  top. 
Many  are  the  candidates,  particularly  sweeps  and  sailors,  who 
attempt  to  swarm  up  the  slippery  mast ;  some  heavy-sterned  fel- 
lows only  mounting  half  way  ;  others  scrambling  almost  within 
arm's  length  of  the  reward :  but,  alas !  down,  down,  down  they 
slide  again  like  greased  lightning,  and  cursing  Sir  Isaac  New- 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


101 


ton  for  inventing  gravitation.  At  last  some  more  fortunate  or 
clever  aspirant  attempts  the  task — up  he  go — up  he  go — like  the 
'possum,  till  he  actually  reaches  the  tiptop,  and  clutches  the 
tempting  article.  Lucky  dog  that  he  is,  not  to  be  an  English 
author,  and  rewarded  by  English  authorities !  No  one  grudges 
him  his  success- — no  one  objects  that  the  nineteen  other  candi- 
dates have  gone  to  the  bottom  of  the  pole.  He  has  not  only 
won  the  prize,  but  wears  it,  and  perhaps  literally  in  the  shape 
of  a  new  pair  of  breeches. 

It  has  been  said,  indeed,  that  a  writer  would  ierive  no  ad- 
vantage from  an  extended  property  in  his  works  ;  but  why  should 
not  long  copyrights  be  as  beneficial  as  long  leases,  long  purses, 
long  annuities,  long  legs,  long  heads,  long  lives,  and  other  long 
things  that  are  longed  for  ?  Much  stress  has  been  laid  on  the 
declarations  of  publishers,  that  they  would  give  no  more  for 
forty-two  years  than  for  twenty-eight,  or  fourteen.  And  no  doubt 
the  parties  were  perfectly  sincere  in  the  declaration.  There 
are  persons  who  would  not  plant  trees,  however  profitable  ulti- 
mately, because  the  return  would  be  distant  and  not  immediate : 
and  even  so  some  publishers  might  not  care  to  invest  their  cap- 
ital in  standard  works  for  a  sure,  but  slow,  remuneration.  But 
that  money  is  to  be  made  of  books,  even  after  twenty-eight  years, 
is  certain,  or  what  becomes  of  Lord  Brougham's  statement,  that 
publishers  have  been  making  large  preparations,  and  incurring 
great  expense  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  out  works  of  which 
the  copyrights  were  just  expiring  ?  Nay,  is  there  not  one  book- 
seller in  Cheapside,  who  is  understood  to  have  made  hundreds 
and  thousands,  if  not  hundreds  of  thousands,  by  this  sort  of 
author-snatching  ?  But  to  bring  the  question  to  issue,  let  us 
take  a  batch  of  writers  who  are  all  as  dead  as  if  they  had  been 
boiled,  and  yet  at  whose  head  and  brains  there  is  better  sucking 
than  in  a  quart  of  shrimps.  For  example,  there  is  one  Fielding, 
whose  last  novel  was  published  a  century  ago,  and,  consequently, 
has  been  common  spoil  for  some  fourscore  years.  Will  any 
one  be  bold  enough  to  say,  that  a  revived  copyright  of  "  Tom 
Jones  "  would  be  valueless  in  the  market  ?  Then  we  have  one 
Smollett,  and  one  Sterne,  and  one  Goldsmith,  all  defunct  fifty 
years  since, — would  an  exclusive  right  in  their  works  obtain 


108 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


no  bidders  ?  Not  to  name  Shakspeare  or  Milton  ;  would  John- 
son's  Dictionary,  as  copyright,  fetch  nothing  in  the  Row  1  or 
would  the  shade  of  Defoe  again  go  a-begging  from  publisher  to 
publisher,  with  his  "  Robinson  Crusoe  ?"  Why,  in  the  Literary 
Stocks,  there  could  hardly  be  a  safer  investment. 

In  the  Upper  House,  the  opposition  to  the  Bill  was  led  by  Lord 
Brougham,  not  without  expressions  of  great  respect  and  "  sincere 
affection"  for  literary  men,  whom  he  represented  as  claimants; 
not  only  on  the  justice,  but  on  the  benevolence  of  the  house. 
To  this  last  character,  however,  I  for  one  must  demur.  There 
has  been  too  much  of  this  almsgiving  tone  used  towards  authors, 
so  that  an  uninformed  reader  of  the  speeches  would  imagine 
that  the  poor  dogs  were  on  their  hind  legs  begging  for  a  bone,  or 
a  boon,  as  some  pronounce  it,  instead  of  standing  up  like  the 
kangaroo  for  their  natural  rights.  For,  be  it  remembered,  by 
Tories,  Conservatives,  and  Royal  Oak  Boys,  that  we  have  only 
been  agitating  to  regain  our  usurped  possessions — to  effect  not  a 
•    Revolution,  but  a  Restoration  ! 

Apart  from  the  above  vile  phrase,  the  compliments  of  Lord 
Brougham  were  highly  flattering,  and  his  sincere  affection  would 
no  doubt  be  a  valuable  possession,  but,  alas  !  when  it  came  to 
be  tested,  the  tie,  though  showy,  was  no  more  binding  than  the 
flimsy  gilt  book-covers  of  the  present  day.  His  Lordship  soon 
repented  of  his  attachment  to  authors,  and  refused  to  "  be  led 
away,  as  many  had  been  led  away  (and  oh!  that  our  state 
wheelers  had  never  any  other  leaders !)  by  a  generous,  natural, 
and  praise- worthy  feeling."  The  Peers  had  listened  too  much 
to  kind  feelings,  and  he  felt  compelled  to  remind  them  of  "  the 
strict  duties  of  the  legislative  office. "  A  very  superfluous  in- 
junction— for  what  has  the  legislature  done  for  literature  ? 
How  have  our  legislators  "  leaned  towards  the  side  towards  which 
they  must  all  wish  to  lean,  and  towards  which  all  their  prejudi- 
ces and  partialities  must  bear  them  V  Why,  they  found  the 
authors  in  possession  of  a  common  law  right,  so  called  from  be- 
ing founded  on  common  sense  and  common  justice — and  how 
did  they  show  their  amiable  weakness,  their  partial  warp  and 
bias,  their  over-indulgent  fondness  for  that  spoiled  child — a  son 
of  the  Muses.    To  borrow  a  comparison,  one  of  the  most  ill 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPY  WRONG. 


109 


used  members  of  creation  is  that  forlorn  animal,  a  street  dog. 
Every  idle  hand  has  a  stone,  every  idle  foot  has  a  kick  for  him 
— every  driver  a  whip,  and  every  carpenter  a  cleft  stick.  He 
has  only  to  look  at  a  butcher's  shop — merely  to  point  at  a  sheep 
— to  be  snatched  up  instanter.  Bang !  goes  the  chopper  !  and  / 
off  fly  a  few  inches  of  his  tail.  He  has  only  to  be  looked  at  by 
a  bevy  of  young  blackguards,  and  in  a  jiffy  away  he  scours, 
encumbered  with  an  old  kettle.  Even  so  it  fared  with  the  au- 
thor. He  was  ragged  in  his  coat,  bare  on  his  ribs,  and  tucked 
up  in  the  flank — in  short,  he  looked  a  very  peltabie,  kickable, 
whipable,  and  curtailable  dog,  indeed.  Accordingly,  no  sooner 
had  Law  caught  sight  of  him,  than  it  caught  hold  of  him,  docked 
his  entail  at  a  blow,  and  tied  Stationers'  Hall  to  the  stump. 

So  much  for  the  strict  duties  of  the  legislative  office,  to  which 
we  owe  that  we  have  only  a  lease  of  our  own  premises — a  tem- 
porary usufruct  in  our  own  orchards — that  we  have  been  en- 
couraged by  a  sequestration,  and  protected  from  retail  privateer- 
ing, on  the  condition  of  wholqpale  piracy  hereafter ! 

To  be  sure  it  has  been  urged,  that  an  extended  copyright  (an 
author's  monopoly  instead  of  a  bookseller's)  would  damage  the 
public  interest — that  it  would  enhance  the  price  of  books — at 
any  rate,  that  it  would  prevent  their  re-issue  at  a  reduced  rate. 
But  this  speculation  remains  to  be  tested  by  experiment.  The 
higher  and  wealthy  classes  do  not  compose,  as  formerly,  the  great 
mass  of  readers — the  numbers  have  increased  by  millions,  and 
our  writers  are  quite  as  well  aware  as  the  trade  of  the  superior 
advantage  of  a  cheap  and  large  circulation.  They  have  the 
double  temptation  of  popularity  and  profit.  One  can  even  fancy 
an  author  publishing  without  hope  of  pecuniary  reward,  nay, 
at  a  certain  loss,  provided  it  would  insure  his  numbers  a  Bozzian 
diffusion  ;  whereas  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  a  writer  setting  so 
high  a  price  on  his  own  book  as  would  necessarily  confine  its 
perusal  to  a  very  select  circle.  On  these  points  I  am  competent 
to  speak,  having  re-issued  the  majority  of  my  own  humble 
works,  at  a  price  quite  in  accordance  with  the  demand  for  cheap 
literature — and  most  certainly  not  enhanced  by  the  time  my 
copyrights  had  been  in  existence.  It  is  true  that  the  cost  of  a 
volume  has  occasionally  been  purposely  hoisted  up,  for  instance, 


110 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


by  wilfully  destroying  the  wood-blocks  and  copper  plates,  as  in 
the  case  of  Dr.  Dibdin's  "  Bibliographical  Decameron,"  but  such 
dog-in-the-mangery  acts  have  been  committed  at  or  before  pub- 
lication :  for  even  the  maddest  Bibliomaniac  would  hardly  dream 
of  making  a  work  "  scarce,"  after  a  sale  of  forty-two  years.  It 
follows,  then,  that  the  shorter  the  copyright  the  longer  the  price 
of  the  book  !  for  supposing  the  term  cut  down  to  one  year  for  the 
writer  to  sow,  reap,  and  gather  in  his  harvest,  what  so  likely  to 
set  him  Dibdinizing  as  the  brevity  of  his  lease  ?  "  Odds  books 
and  buyers!"  says  he,  "only  twelve  months  maiKet  before  me, 
less  fifty-two  Sundays !  As  my  time  is  so  scant,  I  must  make 
the  most  of  it  !"  So  he  stirs  up  the  coals  to  a  bonfire,  pitches 
into  it  all  his  costly  wood-cuts,  as  if  they  were  so  many  logs, 
and  enhances  the  price  of  his  volume  to  ten  guineas  a  copy ! 

Apropos  of  cheapness,  it  seems  never  to  have  occurred  to  the 
sticklers  for  it,  that  an  article  may  become  unreasonably  reason- 
able— that  the  consumer  may  be  benefited  overmuch.  For  ex 
ample,  there  have  been  certain  spring  shop  announcements  to 
be  seen  about  London,  in  which  the  low  price  of  the  commodities 
was  vouched  for  by  the  ruin  of  the  manufacturer — broad  pro- 
clamations that  the  "  Great  Bargains  in  Cotton  "  had  shut  up  the 
mills,  and  that  the  "  Wonderfully  Reduced  Silks  "  had  exhausted 
not  only  the  bowels  of  the  worm  but  those  of  the  weaver.  But 
is  such  a  consummation  a  favorable  one,  and  devoutly  to  be 
wished,  whatever  the  fabric?  Is  it  really  desirable  to  see  our 
authors  publicly  advertised  as  "  Unprecedented  Sacrifices  V 
Or  would  anybody,  except  Mr.  Wakley,  or  some  useless  Utili- 
tarian, be  actually  gratified  by  reading  such  a  placard  as  the 
following  : 

UNEXAMPLED  DISTRESS  IN  GRUB  STREET! 

GREAT  REDUCTION   IN  LITERATURE  !  ! 
PROSE  UNDER  PRIME  COST  !  !  !      POETRY  FOR  NOTHING  !  1  !  ! 

It  is  certain,  nevertheless,  that  new  works,  and  especially  pe- 
riodical ones,  have  been  projected  and  started,  during  the  Rage 
for  Cheap  Literature,  at  rates  so  ruinously  low,  that  they  might 
afford  brown  bread  and  single  Gloster  to  the  Publishers  or  to 
the  Writers,  but  certainly  not  for  both.    Thus,  a  few  months 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


Ill 


since,  I  was  applied  to,  myself,  to  contribute  to  a  new  journal, 
not  exactly  gratuitously,  but  at  a  very  small  advance  upon  noth- 
ing— and  avowedly  because  the  work  had  been  planned  accord- 
ing to  that  estimate.  However,  I  accepted  the  terms  condition- 
ally ;  that  is  to  say,  provided  the  principle  could  be  properly 
carried  out.  Accordingly,  I  wrote  to  my  butcher,  baker,  and 
other  tradesmen,  informing  them  that  it  was  necessary,  for  the 
sake  of  cheap  literature  and  the  interest  of  the  reading  public, 
that  they  should  furnish  me  with  their  several  commodities  at  a 
very  trifling  per-centage  above  cost  price.  It  will  be  sufficient 
to  quote  the  answer  of  the  butcher  : — 

"  Sir, — Respectin  your  note.  Cheap  literater  be  blowed. 
Butchers  must  live  as  well  as  other  pepel — and  if  so  be  you  or 
the  readin  publick  wants  to  have  meat  at  prime  cost,  you  must 
buy  your  own  beastesses,  and  kill  yourselves.  I  remane,  &c, 
John  Stokes." 

And,  truly,  why  not  cheap  anything,  or  everything,  as  well 
as  cheap  literature  ?  Cheap  beef,  cheap  beer,  cheap  butter,  and 
cheap  bread  ?  As  to  books,  the  probability  is,  that  distant  re- 
issues would  be  at  reduced  rates  ;  but,  even  supposing  them  to 
remain  at  their  original  prices,  why  should  Mr.  Thomson  of 
1843  have  his  "  Waverley  "  any  cheaper  than  Mr.  Thomson  of 
1814? 

At  any  rate,  the  interests  of  both  parties  ought  to  be  fairly 
considered.  Nay,  Consistency  goes  still  farther,  and  hints  tha* 
the  literary  interest  should  be  especially  favored.  For,  hark  to 
Consistency  !  "  Let  the  public,"  she  says,  "  be  cared  for — let 
the  public  be  well  cared  for, — and  let  the  Authors  be  particu- 
larly well  cared  for,  as  the  most  public  part  of  the  public  !" 

"  But  if  we  give  an  extended  term  to  the  authors,"  cries  Lord 
Brougham,  "  we  must  also  give  a  longer  day  to  the  patentees." 
And  why  not,  if  they  deserve  and  need  it  ?  But  it  is  as  easy 
to  show  cause  against  a  patent  being  perpetual,  as  it  is  difficult 
to  prove  why  a  copyright  should  be  limited.  In  the  abstract, 
the  absolute  rights  of  both  parties  may  be  equal — but  as  the 
monopoly  of  a  mechanical  invention  might  be  an  enormous  evil, 
Expediency,  with  propriety,  steps  in  to  protect  the  public  inte- 
rest when  the  private  one  has  been  amply  gratified.    In  fact, 


112 


PROSE  AMD  VERSE. 


the  patentees  of  great  and  useful  inventions  have  generally  re. 
alized  large  fortunes  within  a  few  years ;  whereas  the  best  and 
greatest  of  our  writers  have  commonly  made  such  little  ones, 
during  their  whole  lives,  that  the  Next-of-Kin  never  heard  of 
anything  to  his  advantage.  And  the  reason  was  ably  explained 
by  the  Bishop  of  London. 

The  merits  of  a  mechanical  invention  can  at  once  be  tested  : 
and  are  immediately  recognized.  The  merest  loggerhead  can 
understand  at  a  glance  the  advantage  of  a  machine  which  im- 
pels a  ship  without  wind  and  a  coach  without  horses — howbeit 
the  same  dunderpate  in  twenty  long  years  had  never  found  out 
the  use  of  "  book  larning."  There  is  a  gentleman  of  my  ac- 
quaintance who  derives  a  yearly  sum  for  a  patent  clothes  brush, 
the  superiority  of  which,  in  brushing  his  master's  coat,  John 
Footman  would  detect  ere  he  had  whistled  through  "  Nancy 
Dawson."  But  suppose  instead  of  a  machine  of  bristles,  wire, 
and  wood,  my  friend  had  composed  a  work,  intended  to  brush 
off  the  dirt  and  dust  of  the  human  intellect,  he  might  have  been 
months  in  catching  a  publisher,  and  years  upon  years  in  getting 
hold  of  the  public.  But  why  talk  of  steam-engines,  clothes 
brushes,  and  such  utilities  ?  There  was  one  trifling  instrument, 
for  which,  had  the  inventor  secured  a  patent,  the  sale  of  the 
article,  merely  as  a  toy,  would  have  certainly  enriched  the  pro- 
prietor— for  the  dullest  unit  of  humanity  had  but  to  put  the  tube 
to  his  or  her  eye  to  enjoy  all  the  beautiful  and  varied  patterns 
of  the  kaleidoscope.  But  suppose,  instead  of  a  tin  machine 
with  reflectors  and  bits  of  colored  glass,  the  novelty  had  been  a 
"  Novum  Organon,"  how  many  of  those  peeping  thousands  and 
millions  might  have  looked  through  it  and  through  it,  by  sun- 
light and  lamplight,  without  discovering  that  it  was  rare  food 
for  the  mind — prime  intellectual  Bacon.  The  truth  is,  we  so 
far  resemble  the  brutes,  that  we  understand  our  physical  wants 
and  comforts,  much  more  quickly  than  our  mental  or  moral 
ones, — just  as  a  turnspit  would  find  out  the  value  of  a  bottlejack 
long  before  that  of  a  Bridgewater  Treatise.  Hence,  the  prompt 
recognition  and  remuneration  of  mechanical  inventions  and  in- 
ventors. Nor  must  it  be  forgotten  that  government,  as  wide 
awake  to  the  Physical,  and  as  fast  asleep  to  the  Intellectual,  as 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


113 


the  loggerhead ed  dunce,  John  Footman,  the  kaleidoscopers,  and 
the  turnspit, — it  ought  not  to  be  forgotten  that  government  has 
sometimes  bought  his  invention  of  a  patentee,  but  has  never  pur- 
chased a  copyright  since  the  invention  of  printing.  It  will  be 
time  enough,  then,  when  Sir  Robert  Peel  begins  to  bargain  with 
us  for  our  works,  on  behalf  of  the  nation,  to  say  that  we  are 
on  the  same  footing  as  the  patentees,  r 

The  International  Question — and  Pirates  Foreign  and  Do- 
mestic— in  my  next. — Yours,  &c, 


LETTER  V. 

To  the  Editor  of  the  Athenaeum  : 

Problematical  as  some  persons  may  consider  the 
benefit  of  an  extended  copyright  to  authors,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
of  the  immediate  injury  they  must  sustain,  in  common  with 
publishers,  from  the  piratical  reprinting  of  the  works  in  foreign 
countries — to  wit,  France,  Belgium,  and  the  United  States.  I 
am  not  aware  whether  Germany  partakes  in  this  disgraceful 
traffic  :  but  there  is  a  word  for  it  in  the  language,  and  nothing 
is  more  favorable  to  Nachdruckerie  than  the  contiguity  of  several 
petty  principalities. 

Of  the  character  of  the  system,  the  very  name  that  is  applied 
to  it  is  significant — a  term  which  associates  this  over-free-trade 
with  the  buccaneering  practices  of  the  old  robbers  on  the  high 
seas.  The  literary  pirate  does  not,  indeed,  dabble  in  blood,  but 
in  ink  ;  but  the  object  is  the  same,  and  pursued  by  the  same 
means — the  indiscriminate  pillage  of  friend  or  foe.  And  here 
be  it  said,  that  if  anything  can  palliate  the  foreign  marauder, 
and  render  his  offence  comparatively  venial,  it  is  the  example 
of  English  publishers  pirating  English  works.  It  has  always 
been  reckoned  unnatural  for  dog  to  eat  dog,  or  for  hawks  to  pick 
out  hawks'  eyes  ;  and  the  Highland  veteran,  who  stole  droves 
of  cattle  without  scruple,  would  have  held  it  a  heinous  offence  to 
lift  a  sucking  calf  belonging  to  any  one  of  his  own  clan. 

Part  h.  9 


114 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Nevertheless,  of  this  heinous  and  unnatural  conduct  there  have 
been  too  many  instances,  including  a  couple  within  the  last  few 
months.  In  the  first  case,  a  piracy  was  committed  by  a  Firm 
not  the  least  active  in  the  opposition  to  the  Bill  of  Sergeant  Tal- 
fourd,  and  who,  of  course,  held  the  poacher-like  principle  that 
the  proper  time  for  a  copyright  to  expire  was  whenever  they 
chose  to  kill  it.  The  other  party  alluded  to,  once  went  so  far 
as  to  assert  to  me  that  an  author  would  not  receive  more,  but 
less,  for  a  longer  term  in  his  works — a  declaration  attributed  at 
the  time  to  mere  natural  blockheadism  ;  but  his  theory  of  literary 
rights  has  since  been  illustrated  by  an  injunction  obtained  against 
him  by  a  brother  bookseller,  for  pirating  some  popular  metrical 
legends.  Now  in  what  but  the  pseudo-respectability  of  a  double- 
fronted  shop  in  Cornhill  does  this  publisher  rank  above  a  man 
whom  he  would  no  doubt  have  designated  as  a  little,  low,  dirty, 
shabby  library-keeper  in  the  suburbs,  to  whom  I  one  day  hap- 
pened to  mention  a  placard  in  a  neighboring  shop- window  an- 
nouncing a  spurious  "  Master  Humphrey's  Clock." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  little,  low,  dirty,  shabby  library-keeper,  "  if 
you  had  observed  the  name,  it  was  by  Bos,  not  Boz — S,  Sir,  not 
Z  ;  and,  besides,  it  would  have  been  no  piracy,  Sir,  even  with 
the  Z,  because  Master  Humphrey's  Clock,  you  see,  Sir,  was  not 
published  as  by  Boz,  but  by  Charles  Dickens."* 

These  lax  principles  of  our  domestic  pirates  are  not  at  all 
braced  by  a  passage  across  the  Atlantic.  In  America  the  sys- 
tem has  reached  its  climax,  and  the  types,  used  on  a  new  work 
hare,  are  only  the  antetypes  of  a  reprint  in  Boston,  Philadel- 
phia, or  New  York.  Of  this,  a  flagrant  example  has  recently 
occurred  in  the  republication  of  Sir  E.  Bulwer's  last  new  novel, 
"  Zanoni,"  in  a  newspaper  form,  at  the  rate  of  ten  copies  for  a 
dollar  !  In  fact,  as  to  natural  rights,  in  the  States  there  appear 
to  be  two  classes  very  much  on  a  par — our  read  men  and  the 
Indians. 

It  may  be  as  well  for  me,  before  commenting  on  such  trans- 
actions, to  disown  any  prejudice,  personal  or  political,  against 
America  or  the  Americans.  I  am  none  of  the  "  Mr.  H's"  who 
have  drawn,  sketched,  or  caricatured  them.    The  stars  and 


*  Fact 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


115 


stripes  do  not  affect  me  like  a  blight  in  the  eye  ;  nor  does 
"  Yankee  Doodle  "  give  me  the  ear-ache.  I  have  no  wish  to 
repeal  the  Union  of  the  United  States ;  or  to  alter  the  phrase 
in  the  Testament  into  "  Republicans  and  Sinners."  In  reality, 
I  have  rather  a  Davidish  feeling  towards  Jonathan,  remembering 
whence  he  comes,  and  what  language  he  speaks  ;  and  holding 
it  better  in  such  cases  to  have  the  wit  that  traces  resemblances, 
than  the  judgment  that  detects  differences, — and  perhaps  foments 
them. 

It  is,  therefore,  to  gratify  no  private  spleen,  spite,  Dr  jealousy, 
that  my  voice  is  raised  against  a  system  which  has  been  con- 
demned by  some  of  the  wisest  and  most  distinguished  of  her  own 
sons  as  prejudicial  to  the  dignity  and  best  interests  of  America 
— men,  who  do  not  care,  perhaps,  to  see  their  Gog  of  a  country 
indebted  for  all  its  prose  and  poetry  to  little  Great  Britain,  just 
as  the  jolterheaded  Giant  at  the  gate  of  Kenilworth  Castle  was 
dependent  for  his  literature  on  the  dwarfish  imp  Flibbertigibbet. 

And  truly  gigantic  is  Jonathan  in  his  material  works,  and 
extra-fast  in  his  physical  progress ;  but  will  he  really  be  satisfied 
with  going  ahead  in  everything  but  that  in  which  the  head  is  so 
distinguished  an  agent  ?  He  is  first  chop  with  the  hatchet,  and 
a  crack  with  the  rifle, — grand  at  a  'coon,  mighty  at  a  'possum, 
and  awful  at  a  squirrel, — he  can  drive  a  nail  with  a  bullet,  or  a 
bargain  with  a  Jew  pedlar, — whip  his  weight  in  wild  cats,*  grin 
Jesuit's  bark  into  quinine,  and,  as  some  say,  wring  off  the  tail 
of  a  comet, — but  where  will  be  his  exploits  with  the  pen  ?  Will 
he  resemble  or  not  the  big  Ben  of  the  school,  a  dab  at  marbles, 
a  first-rater  at  cricket,  a  top-sawyer  at  fives,  and  a  good-'un  at 
fisticuffs,  but  obliged  to  be  obliged  for  his  English  themes  and 
exercises  to  the  least  boy  on  the  form  ?  The  picture  is  a  morti- 
fying one  ;  but  in  some  such  character  must  Jonathan  necessa- 
rily figure,  if  he  consents  to  be  a  mere  interloper — a  Squatter, 
instead  of  a  settler,  in  the  Field  of  Letters. 

That  America,  in  the  absence  of  an  International  Copyright, 
can  never  possess  a  native  literature,  has  been  foretold  by  the 
second-sighted  on  either  side  of  the  Atlantic.    Indeed,  accord- 

*  "  Phoo  !  phoo  !"  said  an  old  Anglo-Indian,  in  reference  to  this  boast  • 
"I  can  whip  my  own  weight  in  elephants  " 


110 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


ing  to  Mr.  Cornelius  Mathews,  in  his  speech  at  the  public  dinner 
given  to  Dickens  at  New  York,  the  barren  time  is  already  come, 
and  the  field  of  letters,  in  the  States,  scarcely  produces  a  prose 
thistle  or  a  poetical  dandelion.  It  would  hardly  feed  a  Learned 
Pig.  Such  must  be  the  inevitable  result  of  the  republication  of 
English  works  on  a  scale  that  totally  precludes  any  native  com- 
petition  ;  and  whatever  may  be  the  feeling  of  the  tradin^part- 
ners,  I  can. imagine  nothing  more  mortifying  to  the  spirit  of  a 
liberal,  accomplished,  and  patriotic  American,  than  to  sit  in  his 
study,  under  a  framed  and  glazed  "  Declaration  of  Independ- 
ence," and  to  look  at  a  Family  Library,  well  stored  indeed  with 
books,  but  of  which  nothing  save  the  paper  and  the  covers  are 
of  home  manufacture. 

Of  the  character  of  the  traffic  there  can  be  no  doubt.  No 
honorable  man  would  wish  to  obtain  mental  food,  any  more  than 
his  bodily  victual,  without  fairly  paying  for  it.  It  makes  no 
difference  that  the  supply  comes  from  another  country  ;  for  who 
would  object  to  pay  his  tradesman's  bills  on  the  plea  that  his 
American  apples,  his  Ostend  butter,  and  his  French  eggs,  were 
of  foreign  production  ?  Nor  does  it  matter  that  the  acquisition 
is  not  exactly  so  tangible  as  upholstery  ;  it  is  as  irregular  to 
have  your  head  furnished  as  your  house  at  the  expense  of  your 
neighbor. 

But  these  are  the  consumers.  As  to  the  purveyors,  they  are 
precisely  on  a  par  with  the  remarkable  cheap  traders,  who  stole 
ready-made  brooms.  *  They  are  not  liable,  it  is  true,  to  any 
legal  penalty  ;  but  a  severe  punishment  is  awarded  to  a  very 
similar  offence.  According  to  the  comity  of  civilized  coun- 
tries, the  national  flag  virtually  protects  not  only  the  aggregate 
people,  but  every  native  individual — the  British  subject  at  Balti- 
more or  Boston  as  much  as  the  cockney  in  Cheapside.  Even 
so  the  copyright  of  an  English  work  attaches  to  the  solitary 
copy  that  finds  its  way  to  New  York  as  much  as  to  the  1499 
which  remain  in  the  dominions  of  Queen  Victoria.  It  is  a 
single  bank  note,  but  of  a  large  issue  ;  and  its  multiplication  by 
spurious  copies,  particularly  for  circulation  in  our  empire  or  its 
colonies,  is  surely  as  nefarious  as  the  forgery  of  our  "  flimsies." 
The  analogy  is  undeniable :  and  as  the  wholesale  counterfeiting 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG.  li<r 

of  a  paper  currency  has  only  been  practised  heretofore  between 
nations  at  war,  it  is  incumbent  on  the  Congress  of  a  country  with 
which  we  are  at  amity  to  put  a  stop  to  such  hostilities. 

And  here,  pray  note,  how  a  Perpetual  Copyright,  as  I  formerly 
stated,  might  be  defended  with  a  better  grace  from  invasion  from 
abroad.  Indeed,  if  foreign  piracy  have  any  plea  in  extenuation, 
it  is  the  evil  example  of  the  statute  of  1709,  which  first  put  a 
boundary  line  to  our  possession.  Jonathan  is  a  great  calculator, 
and  may  calculate  that  space  as  well  as  time  may  nullify  a 
copyright ;  and  to  be  candid,  there  is  no  very  clear  reason  why 
it  should  not.  To  me  it  appears  that  28  degrees  of  latitude 
might  as  justly  and  rationally  alienate  a  property  as  28  years  of 
longitude  ;  that  my  right  may  as  consistently  depart  from  me  in 
a  steamboat  as  in  a  calendar  ;  and  of  the  two,  the  Great  West- 
ern seems  the  most  tangible  conveyancer.  As  to  any  work 
above  23  years  old,  its  reprinting  by  Americans  or  New  Zea- 
landers  can  be  no  transgression.  On  No  Man's  Land  there  can 
be  no  trespass  ;  where  there  is  no  right  there  can  be  no  infringe- 
ment ;  there  can  be  no  piracy,  for  there  is  no  copyright,  that 
which  was  called  so  being  dead  and  gone ;  not  transferred  like 
other  property,  but  annihilated ;  not  a  dormant  title,  but  extinct. 
As  a  consequence,  in  a  couple  of  months,  every  printer  in  the 
United  States  will  have,  legally,  as  much  right  and  interest  in 
Waverley  as  the  son  and  heir  of  the  immortal  Novelist. 

There  is  another  injury,  however,  with  which  our  authors  are 
threatened  besides  reprinting,  namely,  translation, — not  from 
English  into  American,  for  there  is  no  such  tongue,  but  from  the 
language  of  a  Monarchy  into  that  of  a  Republic.  Yes  ;  our 
writers  are  actually  to  be  done  into  Locofocos,  Nullifiers,  Fede- 
ralists, Democrats,  Sympathisers, — nay,  perhaps,  into  Horse 
Alligators  and  Yellow  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  according  to  the 
taste  of  the  province  in  which  they  may  be  reprinted,  or  the 
predilections  of  the  republisher  !  In  fact,  American  editions 
are  to  represent  in  spirit,  as  well  as  in  form,  American  impres- 
sions ! 

This  transmogrification  is  plainly  alluded  to  in  the  following 
paragraph  of  a  Memorial  to  Congress  got  up  at  a  meeting  of 


118 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


publishers,  printers,  &c,  at  Boston,  in  April  last,  Mr  .  Goodrich, 
alias  Peter  Parley,  in  the  chair  : 

"  We  would  also  suggest  another  point  of  vital  import.  If 
English  authors  obtain  copyrights  upon  their  works  here,  and 
our  markets  are  supplied  with  them,  it  is  apparent  that,  having 
no  power  to  adapt  them  to  our  wants,  our  institutions,  and  our 
state  of  society,  we  must  permit  their  circulation  as  they  are. 
We  shall  thus  have  a  London  literature  forced  upon  us,  at  once 
driving  our  own  out  of  the  field,  and  subjecting  the  community 
to  its  influence.  So  long'as  we  have  power  over  it — so  long  as 
we  can  shape  it  as  may  suit  our  taste  and  condition,  we  have 
nothing  to  fear  ;  but  when  this  privilege  is  taken  away,  and  the 
vast  preponderance  of  British  capital  has  driven  our  own  out  of 
the  trade,  shall  we  not  have  in  our  bosom  a  power  at  war  with 
our  institutions,  and  dangerous  to  our  prosperity  1  Is  it  not 
safer  and  better  to  let  in  this  literature  freely,  but  subject  to  the 
moulding  of  our  wants  and  wishes,  rather  than  to  give  it  an 
ascendency,  and  entrench  it  behind  the  inviolable  privilege  of 
copyright  ?" 

And  that  there  may  be  no  doubt  about  the  meaning  of  the 
memorialists,  hear  Mr.  Cornelius  Mathews  : 

"  I  have  said  nothing — and  I  might  have  said  much — of  the 
mutilation  of  books  by  our  American  republishes — that  out- 
rageous wrong  by  which  a  noble  English  writer,  speaking  truths 
in  London,  dear  to  him  as  life,  is  made  to  say  in  New  York  that 
which  his  soul  abhors  !" 

I  am  not  aware  of  the  exact  tinge  of  the  Boston  complexion , 
but,  whether  pallid  or  rubicund,  golden  or  brazen,  was  there 
no  cheek  capable  of  a  blush  at  the  reading  of  such  a  precious 
document !  Did  Mr.  Goodrich — himself  a  writer — and  a  moral- 
ist for  children — did  Peter  Parley  feel  no  misgivings  as  to  the 
propriety  or  fairness  of  casting  the  brains  of  English  authors 
into  American  moulds  and  shapes,  with  as  little  ceremony  as 
so  much  jelly  ?  Is  there  no  turpitude  in  the  falsification  of 
writings  because  they  happen  to  be  not  in  manuscript,  but  in 
print  ?  On  the  contrary,  the  most  dishonorable  of  misrepre- 
sentations is  to  make  a  man  misrepresent  himself,  by  attributing 
to  him  expressions  he  had  never  uttered,  or  principles  he 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


119 


had  never  entertained — a  proceeding  quite  as  dirty  as  that  of 
the  Brobdignaggian  baboon,  when  it  crammed  into  the  mouth 
of  Gulliver  the  filth  it  had  hoarded  in  its  own  pouches  ! 

For  my  own  part,  I  think  that  a  man  has  quite  as  good  a  right 
to  attach  a  sum,  as  a  sentiment,  to  my  signature — to  use  my 
name  for  the  supply  of  his  wants,  as  for  the  support  of  his  prin- 
ciples— to  turn  me  into  cash,  as  to  turn  me  into  a  republican. 
But  there  may  be  more  novel  notions  on  these  matters  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  Atlantic  ;  where  "  another  and  better 
world"  is  supposed  to  be  the  new  one. 

As  to  the  picture  of  "  London  literature  " — guarded  by  inter- 
national copyright — "  driving  their  own  out  of  the  field" — it 
comes  with  peculiar  grace  from  the  advocates  of  an  unrestrained 
reissue  of  English  books  at  little  more  than  the  cost  of  paper 
and  print.  The  very  men  who  are  scuttling  the  ship  called  au- 
thorship, to  express  fears  of  its  being  swamped  by  a  sea  !  For 
it  is  obvious  that  the  American,  who  thinks  of  literature  as  a 
profession,  under  such  circumstances,  might  as  well  swarm  up 
a  lamp-post  for  a  bee-tree — that  if  he  hopes  to  enlighten  his 
countrymen  and  be  paid  for  his  pains,  he  had  better  turn  bea- 
ver, at  once,  and  thrash  mud  with  his  tail. 

And  now  farewell  to  Jonathan  !  It  can  be  no  unfriendly  as- 
piration to  wish  that  he  may  have  Shakspeares  and  Miltons 
of  his  own — that  he  may  breed  Scotts,  Wordsworths,  Moores, 
Byrons,  and  Bulwers,  as  well  as  Washingtons,  Jeflfersons,  Madi- 
sons,  Clays,  and  General  Jacksons.  But  if  he  desires  to  own 
any  eternally  everlasting,  immortal  names  in  literature,  we  must 
put  down  a  traffic,  particularly  adapted  to  make  a  great  country 
look  little. 

Turning  eastward,  and  looking  across  another  ocean,  there 
is  a  little  kingdom,  wherein  the  Journeymen  Minds  of  the  capi- 
tal have  also  greatly  profited  by  the  Master  Minds  of  England 
— at  least  in  the  way  of  mammon.  I  allude  to  the  Belgians, 
the  most  sordid,  illiberal,  and  huckstering  tradespeople  in  Eu- 
rope, to  whom  Napoleon  might  justly  have  applied  the  epithet 
of  "  boutiquiere,"  seeing  that  a  "  Banker"  sometimes  keeps  his 
office  in  a  back  parlor,  whilst  his  wife  and  daughters  retail  ha- 
berdashery in  the  front  shop.    A  people  whose  revolution  ori- 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


ginated  not  in  love  of  liberty,  but  love  of  money — not  a  reli- 
gious repeal  of  an  union  of  Catholic  and  Protestant — but  a  mere 
breeches-pocket  change,  from  a  desire  to  get  rid  of  Dutch  debt, 
and  a  Dutch-copartnership  in  commercial  profits.  A  people,  in 
short,  who  in  spite  of  their  getting  rid  of  the  Spaniards  have  re- 
tained their  affection  for  "  the  Spanish " — and  instead  of  com- 
bining opulence  with  a  liberal  expenditure,  store  up  their  wealth 
in  miserly  hiding  places — just  as  a  jackdaw  deposits  silver 
spoons,  &c,  in  his  rubbish  saving  banks,  from  a  mere  object- 
less propensity  to  hoarding. 

Now,  as  regards  literary  piracy,  the  Americans  may  plead 
in  mitigation,  their  common  origin  with  the  English,  and  their 
use — saving  some  uncommon  odd  phrases — of  a  common  lan- 
guage. Jonathan  can  read  and  relish  Hamlet  or  Paradise 
Lost,  as  well  as  John ;  and  at  any  rate  a  large  proportion  of  his 
reprints  are  for  his  own  consumption.  But  there  is  no  such 
excuse  for  the  Belgians.  Shakspeare  and  Milton  !  why,  if  they 
were  translated  expressly  into  Flemish,  I  should  be  sorry  to 
guarantee  the  sale  of  fifty  copies.  There  would  be  as  much 
demand  for  them  by  the  Flanders  horses  and  mares  that  trot 
upon  four  legs,  as  by  those  that  walk  upon  two.  If  they  ever 
transplant  from  our  Literature  into  their  own  Belles  Lettres,  it 
will  be  "  Tate's  Universal  Cambist,"  or  Somebody  on  Assurance 
For,  sharpwitted  as  the  Flemish  may  be  at  a  bargain,  in  intel- 
lectual matters  they  are  as  Boeotian  as  if  they  had  taken  mud 
baths  in  their  own  bogs,  and,  as  the  old  Bubble  Man  recom- 
mends, had  given  their  heads  the  full  benefit  of  the  immersion. 

It  follows  that  the  Brussels  Printers  cannot  set  up  the  pretence 
of  the  Boston  ones — that  they  patriotically  rob  our  great  literary 
lamps,  for  the  enlightenment  of  their  own  citizens.  In  Belgium 
there  is  a  smoking,  beer-drinking,  estaminet-haunting,  but  no 
Reading  Public.  The  books  they  consult  are  filled  with  "  Fle- 
mish accounts  " — the  leaves  they  love  are  rolled  up  into  cigars. 
In  short,  in  the  great  March  of  Mind,  the  Flemish  are  as  far 
behind  as  the  baggage,  or  along  with  the  suttlers,  selling  sau- 
sages and  schnapps.  It  is  a  fair  conclusion,  then,  that  a  great 
part  of  the  English  reprints  must  be  intended  for  the  London 
market,  into  which  they  can  only  be  surreptitiously  introduced, 


COPYRIGHT  AND  COPYWRONG. 


121 


and,  consequently,  the  Brussels  publisher  is  not  only  a  Pirate,  but 
a  smuggler — a  Dick  Hatteraick  engrafted  on  Paul  Jones.  But  I 
do  injustice  to  the  brave  Buccaneer  and  the  bold  Freetrader  by 
the  comparison  ;  there  may  be  the  same  greed  for  gain,  but 
there  is  no  risk  of  life  or  limb  to  ennoble  a  traffic  as  paltry  and 
fraudulent  as  the  "  sweating"  of  our  Sovereigns. 

Against  these  new  "  Brussels  Sprouts,"  the  vigilance  of  our 
customs  ought  to  be  particularly  directed  ;  and  their  confiscation 
should  be  strictly  enforced.  Of  an  International  Copyright, 
there  is  no  hope — looking  at  the  sordid  and  unlettered  character 
of  the  Belgians,  the  speech  of  the  King,  a  commercial  jealousy 
of  England,  and  a  general  ill-will  towards  us.  France  and 
America  may  accede  to  our  claims,  and  agree  to  protect  our 
literary  rights  ;  but  Belgium  will  be  the  last,  the  very  last,  to  do 
justice  even  to  the  English.* 

In  the  meantime  let  us  hope  that  our  own  Legislature  will 
extend  all  the  protection  it  can  afford  to  our  Literature  ;  as  much 
security  as  it  can  give  to  the  Publisher ;  and  as  much  encour- 
agement as  it  can  bestow  on  the  Author :  Heaven  knows  he  is 
in  need  of  it !  PJitherto  he  has  only  been  robbed  by  the  Statute 
of  Anne,  nor  has  the  legal  unkindness  been  atoned  for  by  pro- 
portionate favor  in  other  quarters.  Where  are  his  Honorary 
Distinctions  ?  The  highest  honor  ever  conferred  on  an  author — 
a  peerage — was  granted  to  Bubb  Doddington — and  then  not  for 
writing  his  life.  Where  are  the  lucrative  Tellerships,  Warden- 
ships,  Comptrollerships,  Secretaryships,  and  Governorships  dedi- 
cated as  rewards  to  this  species  of  Civil  Merit  ? 

"  And  Echo  answers,  where  ?" 

Even  the  very  few  appointments  heretofore  allotted  for  its 
portion  are  going  or  gone.  The  examinership  of  Plays  has 
passed  from  an  Author  to  an  Actor  ;  and  a  prophetic  soul  augurs 
that  the  Laureateship,  at  the  next  vacancy,  may  go  to  a  Painter. 

So  much  for  the  distinctions  bestowed  on  a  Literary  man  dur- 
ing his  life.    Now  for  the  honors  paid  to  him  at  his  death.  We 

*  "  We  must  be  just  even  towards  the  English  "—from  the  Messager  de 
Gand,  June  9,  1842. 


122 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


all  know  how  he  lives.  He  writes  for  bread,  and  gets  it  short 
weight ; — for  money,  and  gets  the  wrong  change  ; — for  the 
Present,  and  he  is  pirated ; — for  the  Future,  and  his  children 
are  disinherited  for  his  pains.  At  last,  he  sickens,  as  he  well 
may,  and  can  write  no  more.  He  makes  his  will,  but,  for  any 
literary  property,  might  as  well  die  intestate.  His  eldest  son  is 
his  heir,  but  the  Row  administers.  And  so  he  dies,  a  beg- 
gar, with  the  world  in  his  debt.  Being  poor,  he  is  buried 
with  less  ceremony  than  Cock  Robin.  Had  he  been  rich 
enough,  he  might  have  bought  a  "  snug  lying  in  the  Abbey ;; 
of  the  Dean  and  Chapter  of  Westminster,  who  even  then,  true 
to  the  same  style  of  treatment,  would  put  him,  were  he  the 
greatest  and  best  of  our  Poets — as  the  mother  puts  the  least  and 
worst  of  her  brats — into  a  Corner ! 


PROSPECTUS  OF  HOOD'S  MAGAZINE. 


PROSPECTUS  OF  HOOD'S  MAGAZINE. 


Whatever  may  be  thought  of  Dr.  Dickson's  theory,  that  the 
type  of  disease  in  general  is  periodical,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of 
its  applicability  to  modern  literature,  which  is  essentially  peri- 
odical, whether  the  type  be  long  primer,  brevier,  or  bourgeois. 
It  appears,  moreover,  by  the  rapid  consumption  of  monthlies, 
compared  with  the  decline  of  the  annuals,  that  frequent  fits  of 
publication  are  more  prevalent  and  popular  than  yearly  par- 
oxysms. 

Under  these  circumstances,  no  apology  is  necessary  for  the 
present  undertaking ;  but  custom,  which  exacts  an  overture  to  a 
new  opera,  and  a  prologue  to  a  new  play,  requires  a  few  words 
of  introduction  to  a  new  monthly  magazine. 

One  prominent  object,  then,  of  the  projected  publication,  as 
implied  by  the  sub-title  of  "  Comic  Miscellany,"  will  be  the  sup- 
ply of  harmless  "  Mirth  for  the  Million,"  and  light  thoughts,  to 
a  public  sorely  oppressed — if  its  word  be  worth  a  rush,  or  its 
complaints  of  an  ounce  weight — by  hard  times,  heavy  taxes,  and 
those  "  eating  cares  "  which  attend  on  the  securing  of  food  for 
the  day,  as  well  as  a  provision  for  the  future.  For  the  relief 
of  such  afflicted  classes,  the  editor,  assisted  by  able  humorists, 
will  dispense  a  series  of  papers  and  woodcuts,  which,  it  is  hoped, 
will  cheer  the  gloom  of  Willow  Walk,  and  the  loneliness  of 
Wilderness  Row — sweeten  the  bitterness  of  Camomile  street  and 
Wormwood  street — smoothe  the  ruffled  temper  of  Cross  street, 
and  enable  even  Crooked  Lane  to  unbend  itself!  It  is  hardly 
necessary  to  promise  that  this  end  will  be  pursued  without  raising 
a  maiden  blush,  much  less  a  damask,  in  the  nursery  grounds  of 


124 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


modesty — or  trespassing,  by  wanton  personalities,  on  the  parka 
and  lawns  of  private  life.  In  a  word,  it  will  aim  at  being  merry 
and  wise,  instead  of  merry  and  otherwise. 

For  the  sedate,  there  will  be  papers  of  a  becoming  gravity  ; 
and  the  lover  of  poetry  will  be  supplied  with  numbers  in  each 
number. 

As  to  polities,  the  reader  of  Hood's  Magazine  will  vainly 
search  in  its  pages  for  a  panacea  for  agricultural  distress,  or  a 
grand  Catholicon  for  Irish  agitation  ;  he  will  uselessly  seek  to 
know  whether  we  ought  to  depend  for  our  bread  on  foreign  far- 
mers, or  merely  on  foreign  sea-fowl ;  or,  if  the  repeal  of  the 
Union  would  produce  low  rents  and  only  three  quarter  days. 
Neither  must  he  hope  to  learn  the  proper  terminus  of  reform, 
nor  even  whether  a  finality  man  means  Campbell's  last  man,  or 
an  undertaker. 

A  total  abstinence  from  such  stimulating  topics  and  fermented 
questions  is,  indeed,  ensured  by  the  established  character  of  the 
editor,  and  his  notorious  aversion  to  party  spirit.  To  borrow  his 
own  words,  from  a  letter  to  the  proprietors, — "  I  am  no  politician, 
and  far  from  instructed  on  those  topics  which,  to  parody  a  com- 
mon phrase,  no  gentleman's  newspaper  should  be  without.  Thus, 
for  any  knowledge  of  mine,  the  Irish  prosecutions  may  be  for 
pirating  the  Irish  melodies  ;  the  Pennsylvanians  may  have  repu- 
diated their  wives ;  Duff  Green  may  be  a  place,  like  Goose 
Green ;  Prince  Polignac  a  dahlia  or  a  carnation,  and  the  Due 
de  Bordeaux  a  tulip.  The  Spanish  affairs  I  could  never  mas- 
ter, even  with  a  Pronouncing  Dictionary  at  my  elbow ;  it  would 
puzzle  me  to  see  whether  Queen  Isabella's  majority  is  or  is  not 
equal  to  Sir  Robert  Peel's  ;  or,  if  the  shelling  the  Barcelonese 
was  done  with  bombs  and  mortars,  or  the  nutcrackers.  Prim 
may  be  a  quaker,  and  the  whole  civil  war  about  the  Seville 
Oranges.  Nay,  even  on  domestic  matters,  nearer  home,  my 
profound  political  ignorance  leaves  me  in  doubt  on  questions 
concerning  which  the  newsmen's  boys  and  printers'  devils  have 
formed  very  decided  opinions ;  for  example,  whether  the  corn 
law  league  ought  to  extend  beyond  three  miles  from  Mark  Lane 
— or  the  sliding  scale  should  regulate  the  charges  at  the  glacia- 
rium — what  share  the  Welsh  whigs  have  had  in  the  Welsh 


PROSPECTUS  OF  HOOD'S  MAGAZINE 


125 


riots,  and  how  far  the  Ryots  in  India  were  excited  by  the 
slaughter  of  the  Brahmin  Bull.  On  all  such  public  subjects  I 
am  less  au  fait  than  that  Publicist  the  Potboy,  at  the  public- 
house,  with  the  insolvent  sign,  The  Hog  in  the  Pound." 

Polemics  will  be  excluded  with  the  same  rigor ;  and  especially 
the  Tractarian  schism.  The  reader  of  Hood's  Magazine  must 
not  hope,  therefore,  to  be  told  whether  an  old  Protestant  church 
ought  to  be  plastered  with  Roman  cement ;  or  if  a  design  for  a 
new  one  should  be  washed  in  with  Newman's  colors.  And  most 
egregiously  will  he  be  disappointed,  should  he  look  for  contro- 
versial theology  in  our  Poets'  Corner.  He  might  as  well  expect 
to  see  queens  of  Sheba,  and  divided  babies,  from  wearing  Solo- 
mon's spectacles ! 

For  the  rest,  a  critical  eye  will  be  kept  on  our  current  litera- 
ture, a  regretful  one  on  the  drama,  and  a  kind  one  for  the  fine 
arts,  from  whose  artesian  well  there  will  be  an  occasional 
drawing. 

With  this  brief  explanatory  announcement,  Hood's  Magazine 
and  Comic  Miscellany  is  left  to  recommend  itself,  by  its  own 
merits,  to  those  enlightened  judges,  the  reviewers ;  and  to  that 
impartial  jury — too  vast  to  pack  in  any  case — the  British  public. 


126 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE; 

A  ROMANCE. 


**  A  jolly  place,  said  he,  in  days  of  old, 
But  something  ails  it  now  :  the  spot  is  curst." 

Hartleap  Well,  by  Wordsworth. 

part  I. 

Some  dreams  we  have  are  nothing  else  but  dreams* 
Unnatural  and  full  of  contradictions ; 
Yet  others  of  our  most  romantic  schemes 
Are  something  more  than  fictions. 

ft  might  be  only  on  enchanted  ground  ; 

It  might  be  merely  by  a  thought's  expansion  , 

But  in  the  spirit,  or  the  flesh,  I  found 

An  old  deserted  mansion. 

A  residence  for  woman,  child,  and  man, 
A  dwelling-place — and  yet  no  habitation  ; 
A  house — but  under  some  prodigious  ban 
Of  excommunication. 

Unhinged  the  iron  gates  half  open  hung, 
Jarr'd  by  the  gusty  gales  of  many  winters, 
That  from  its  crumbled  pedestal  had  flung 
One  marble  globe  in  splinters. 

No  dog  was  at  the  threshold,  great  or  small  ; 
No  pigeon  on  the  roof — no  household  creature — 
No  cat  demurely  dozing  on  the  wall — 
Not  one  domestic  feature. 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 


No  human  figure  stirred,  to  go  or  come, 
No  face  looked  forth  from  shut  or  open  casement ; 
No  chimney  smoked — there  was  no  sign  of  home 
From  parapet  to  basement. 

With  shatter'd  panes  the  grassy  couit  was  starr'd ; 
The  time-worn  coping-stone  had  tumbled  after ; 
And  thro'  the  ragged  roof  the  sky  shone,  barr'd 
With  naked  beam  and  rafter. 

O'er  all  there  hung  a  shadow  and  a  fear, 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted ! 

The  flow'r  grew  wild  and  rankly  as  the  weed, 
Roses  with  thistles  struggled  for  espial, 
And  vagrant  plants  of  parasitic  breed 
Had  overgrown  the  dial. 

But  gay  or  gloomy,  steadfast  or  infirm, 
No  heart  was  there  to  heed  the  hour's  duration ; 
All  times  and  tides  were  lost  in  one  long  term 
Of  stagnant  desolation. 

The  wren  had  built  within  the  porch,  she  found 
Its  quiet  loneliness  so  sure  and  thorough ; 
And  on  the  lawn — within  its  turfy  mound — 
The  rabbit  made  his  burrow. 

The  rabbit  wild  and  grey,  that  flitted  thro' 

The  shrubby  clumps,  and  frisk'd,  and  sat,  and  vanish  d 

But  leisurely  and  bold,  as  if  he  knew 

His  enemy  was  banish'd. 

The  wary  crow — the  pheasant  from  the  woods — 
Lull'd  by  the  still  and  everlasting  sameness, 
Close  to  the  mansion,  like  domestic  broods, 
Fed  with  a  "  shocking  tameness." 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


The  coot  was  swimming  in  the  reedy  pond, 
Beside  the  water-hen,  so  soon  affrighted  ; 
And  in  the  weedy  moat  the  heron,  fond 
Of  solitude,  alighted. 

The  moping  heron,  motionless  and  stiff, 
That  on  a  stone,  as  silently  and  stilly, 
Stood,  an  apparent  sentinel,  as  if 
To  guard  the  water-lily. 

No  sound  was  heard  except,  from  far  away, 
The  ringing  of  the  Whitwall's  shrilly  laughter, 
Or,  now  and  then,  the  chatter  of  the  jay, 
That  Echo  murmur'd  after.. 

But  Echo  never  mock'd  the  human  tongue ; 
Some  weighty  crime,  that  Heaven  could  not  pardon, 
A  secret  curse  on  that  old  building  hung, 
And  its  deserted  garden. 

The  beds  were  all  untouch'd  by  hand  or  tool ; 
No  footstep  marked  the  damp  and  mossy  gravel, 
Each  walk  as  green  as  is  the  mantled  pool, 
For  want  of  human  travel. 

The  vine  unprun'd,  and  the  neglected  peach, 
Droop'd  from  the  wall  with  which  they  used  to  grapple 
And  on  the  canker'd  tree,  in  easy  reach, 
Rotted  the  golden  apple. 

But  awfully  the  truant  shunn'd  the  ground, 
The  vagrant  kept  aloof,  and  daring  poacher ; 
In  spite  of  gaps  that  thro'  the  fences  round 
Invited  the  encroacher. 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear, 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 


The  pear  and  quince  lay  squander'd  on  the  grass 
The  mould  was  purple  with  unheeded  showers 
Of  bloomy  plums — a  wilderness  it  was 
Of  fruits,  and  weeds,  and  flowers  ! 

The  marigold  amidst  the  nettles  blew, 

The  gourd  embraced  the  rose-bush  in  its  ramble, 

The  thistle  and  the  stock  together  grew, 

The  holly-hock  and  bramble. 

The  bear-bine  with  the  lilac  interlac'd, 

The  sturdy  burdock  choked  its  slender  neighbor, 

The  spicy  pink.    All  tokens  were  efFac'd 

Of  human  care  and  labor. 

The  very  yew  formality  had  train'd 
To  such  a  rigid  pyramidal  stature, 
For  want  of  trimming  had  almost  regain'd 
The  raggedness  of  nature. 

The  fountain  was  a-dry — neglect  and  time 
Had  marr'd  the  work  of  artisan  and  mason, 
And  efts  and  croaking  frogs  begot  of  slime, 
Sprawl'd  in  the  ruin'd  bason. 

The  statue,  fallen  from  its  marble  base, 
Amidst  the  refuse  leaves,  and  herbage  rotten, 
Lay  like  the  idol  of  some  by-gone  race, 
Its  name  and  rites  forgotten. 

On  ev'ry  side  the  aspect  was  the  same, 
All  ruin'd,  desolate,  forlorn,  and  savage : 
No  hand  or  foot  within  the  precinct  came 
To  rectify  or  ravage. 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 
Part  u.  10 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


PART  II. 

O,  very  gloomy  is  the  House  of  Wo, 
Where  tears  are  falling  while  the  bell  is  knelling, 
With  all  the  dark  solemnities  which  show 
That  Death  is  in  the  dwelling  ! 

O  very,  very  dreary  is  the  room 
Where  Love,  domestic  Love,  no  longer  nestles, 
But  smitten  by  the  common  stroke  of  doom, 
The  corpse  lies  on  the  trestles ! 

But  House  of  Wo,  and  hearse,  and  sable  pall, 
The  narrow  home  of  the  departed  mortal, 
Ne'er  looked  so  gloomy  as  that  ghostly  hall, 
With  its  deserted  portal ! 

The  centipede  along  the  threshold  crept, 
The  cobweb  hung  across  in  mazy  tangle, 
And  in  its  winding-sheet  the  maggot  slept, 
At  every  nook  and  angle. 

The  keyhole  lodged  the  earwig  and  her  brood, 
The  emmets  of  the  steps  had  old  possession, 
And  marched  in  search  of  their  diurnal  food 
In  undisturbed  procession. 

As  undisturbed  as  the  prehensile  cell 
Of  moth  or  maggot,  or  the  spider's  tissue, 
For  never  foot  upon  that  threshold  fell, 
To  enter  or  to  issue. 

O'er  all  there  hung  the  shadow  of  a  fear, 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted. 

Howbeit,  the  door  I  pushed — or  so  I  dreamed — 
Which  slowly,  slowly  gaped — the  hinges  creaking 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 


With  such  a  rusty  eloquence,  it  seem'd 
That  time  himself  was  speaking. 

But  Time  was  dumb  within  that  mansion  old, 
Or  left  his  tale  to  the  heraldic  banners 
That  hung  from  the  corroded  walls,  and  told 
Of  former  men  and  manners. 

Those  tattered  flags,  that  with  the  opened  door, 
Seemed  the  old  wave  of  battle  to  remember, 
While  fallen  fragments  danced  upon  the  floor 
Like  dead  leaves  in  December. 

The  startled  bats  flew  out — bird  after  bird — 
The  screech-owl  overhead  began  to  flutter, 
And  seemed  to  mock  the  cry  that  she  had  heard 
Some  dying  victim  utter ! 

A  shriek  that  echoed  from  the  joisted  roof, 
And  up  the  stair,  and  further  still  and  further, 
Till  in  some  ringing  chamber  far  aloof 
It  ceased  its  tale  of  murther  ! 

Meanwhile  the  rusty  armor  rattled  round, 
The  banner  shuddered,  and  the  ragged  streamer 
All  things  the  horrid  tenor  of  the  sound 
Acknowledged  with  a  tremor. 

The  antlers,  where  the  helmet  hung  and  belt, 
Stirred  as  the  tempest  stirs  the  forest  branches, 
Or  as  the  stag  had  trembled  when  he  felt 
The  blood-hound  at  his  haunches. 

The  window  jingled  in  its  crumbled  frame, 
And  through  its  many  gaps  of  destitution 
Dolorous  moans  and  hollow  sighings  came, 
Like  those  of  dissolution. 

The  wood-louse  dropped,  and  rolled  into  a  ball, 
Touched  by  some  impulse  occult  or  mechanic ; 


PROSE  AND  VERSE, 


And  nameless  beetles  ran  along  the  wail 
In  universal  panic. 

The  subtle  spider,  that  from  overhead 
Hung  like  a  spy  on  human  guilt  and  error, 
Suddenly  turned,  and  up  its  slender  thread 
Ran  with  a  nimble  terror. 

The  very  stains  and  fractures  on  the  wall, 
Assuming  features  solemn  and  terrific, 
Hinted  some  tragedy  of  that  old  hall, 
Locked  up  in  hieroglyphic. 

Some  tale  that  might,  perchance,  have  solved  the  doubt, 
Wherefore  amongst  those  flags  so  dull  and  livid, 
The  banner  of  the  Bloody  Hand  shone  out 
So  ominously  vivid. 

Some  key  to  that  inscrutable  appeal, 
Which  made  the  very  frame  of  nature  quiver  ; 
And  every  thrilling  nerve  and  fibre  feel 
So  ague-like  a  shiver. 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear, 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 

If  but  a  rat  had  lingered  in  the  house, 
To  lure  the  thought  into  a  social  channel  I 
But  not  a  rat  remained,  or  tiny  mouse, 
To  speak  behind  the  pannel. 

Huge  drops  rolled  down  the  walls,  as  if  they  wept ; 
And  where  the  cricket  used  to  chirp  so  shrilly, 
The  toad  was  squatting,  and  the  lizard  crept 
On  that,  damp  hearth  and  chilly. 

For  years  no  cheerful  blaze  had  sparkled  there, 
Or  glanced  on  coat  of  burl  or  knightly  metal  • 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 


The  slug  was  crawling  on  the  vacant  chair, — 
The  snail  upon  the  settle. 

The  floor  was  redolent  of  mould  and  must, 
The  fungus  in  the  rotten  seams  had  quickened  ; 
While  ob  the  oaken  table  coats  of  dust 
Perennially  had  thickened. 

No  mark  of  leathern  jack  or  metal  can, 
No  cup — no  horn — no  hospitable  token, — 
All  social  ties  between  that  board  and  man 
Had  long  ago  been  broken. 

There  was  so  foul  a  rumor  in  the  air, 
The  shadow  of  a  presence  so  atrocious  ; 
No  human  creature  could  have  feasted  there, 
Even  the  most  ferocious  ! 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear, 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 

PART  lit. 

JTis  hard  for  human  actions  to  account, 
Whether  from  reason  or  from  impulse  only — 
But  some  internal  prompting  bade  me  mount 
The  gloomy  stairs  and  lonely. 

Those  gloomy  stairs,  so  dark,  and  damp,  and  cold, 
With  odors  as  from  bones  and  relics  carnal, 
Deprived  of  rite,  and  consecrated  mould, 
The  chapel  vault,  or  charnel, 

Those  dreary  stairs,  where  with  the  sounding  stress 
Of  ev'ry  step  so  many  echoes  blended, 
The  mind,  with  dark  misgivings,  feared  to  guess 
How  many  feet  ascended. 


134 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


The  tempest  with  its  spoils  had  drifted  in, 
Till  each  unwholesome  stone  was  darkly  spotted, 
As  thickly  as  the  leopard's  dappled  skin, 
With  leaves  that  rankly  rotted. 

The  air  was  thick — and  in  the  upper  gloom  • 
The  bat — or  something  in  its  shape — was  winging  ; 
And  on  the  wall,  as  chilly  as  a  tomb, 
The  Death's-head  moth  was  clinging. 

That  mystic  moth,  which,  with  a  sense  profound 
Of  all  unholy  presence,  augurs  truly  ; 
And  with  a  grim  significance  flits  round 
The  taper  burning  bluely. 

Such  omens  in  the  place  there  seemed  to  be, 
At  every  crooked  turn,  or  on  the  landing, 
The  straining  eyeball  was  prepared  to  see 
Some  apparition  standing. 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear, 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted ! 

Yet  no  portentous  shape  the  sight  amazed ; 
Each  object  plain,  and  tangible,  and  valid  ; 
But  from  their  tarnished  frames  dark  figures  gazed, 
And  faces  spectre-pallid. 

Not  merely  with  the  mimic  life  that  lies 

Within  the  compass  of  Art's  simulation : 

Their  souls  were  looking  through  their  painted  eyes 

With  awful  speculation. 

On  every  lip  a  speechless  horror  dwelt ; 
On  every  brow  the  burthen  of  affliction ; 
The  old  ancestral  spirits  knew  and  felt 
The  house's  malediction. 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 


Such  earnest  wo  their  features  overcast, 

They  might  have  stirred,  or  sighed,  or  wept,  or  spoke 

But,  save  the  hollow  moaning  of  the  blast, 

The  stillness  was  unbroken. 

No  other  sound  or  stir  of  life  was  there, 
Except  my  steps  in  solitary  clamber, 
From  flight  to  flight,  from  humid  stair  to  stair, 
From  chamber  into  chamber. 

Deserted  rooms  of  luxury  and  state, 
That  old  magnificence  had  richly  furnished 
With  pictures,  cabinets  of  ancient  date, 
And  carvings  gilt  and  burnished. 

Rich  hangings,  storied  by  the  needle's  art, 
With  scripture  history,  or  classic  fable ; 
But  all  had  faded,  save  one  ragged  part, 
Where  Cain  was  slaying  Abel. 

The  silent  waste  of  mildew  and  the  moth 
Had  marred  the  tissue  with  a  partial  ravage ; 
But  undecaying  frowned  upon  the  cloth 
Each  feature  stern  and  savage. 

The  sky  was  pale  ;  the  cloud  a  thing  of  doubt ; 
Some  hues  were  fresh,  and  some  decayed  and  duller 
But  still  the  Bloody  Hand  shone  strangely  out 
With  vehemence  of  color ! 

The  Bloody  Hand  that  with  a  lurid  stain 
Shone  on  the  dusty  floor,  a  dismal  token, 
Projected  from  the  casement's  painted  pane, 
Where  all  beside  was  broken. 

The  Bloody  Hand  significant  of  crime, 
That  glaring  on  the  old  heraldic  banner, 
Had  kept  its  crimson  unimpaired  by  time, 
In  such  a  wondrous  manner  ! 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


O'er  all  there  hung  the  shadow  of  a  fear, 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted! 

The  death-watch  ticked  behind  the  panneled  oak, 
Inexplicable  tremors  shook  the  arras, 
And  echoes  strange  and  mystical  awoke, 
The  fancy  to  embarrass. 

Prophetic  hints  that  filled  the  soul  with  dread, 
But  through  one  gloomy  entrance  pointing  mostly 
The  while  some  secret  inspiration  said, 
That  chamber  is  the  ghostly  ! 

Across  the  door  no  gossamer  festoon 
Swung  pendulous — no  web — no  dusty  fringes, 
No  silky  chrysalis  or  white  cocoon, 
About  its  nooks  and  hinges. 

The  spider  shunned  the  interdicted  room, 
The  moth,  the  beetle,  and  the  fly  were  banished, 
And  where  the  sunbeam  fell  athwart  the  gloom 
The  very  midge  had  vanished. 

One  lonely  ray  that  glanced  upon  a  Bed, 
As  if  with  awful  aim  direct  and  certain, 
*To  show  the  Bloody  Hand  in  burning  red 
Embroidered  on  the  curtain. 

And  yet  no  gory  stain  was  on  the  quilt — 
The  pillow  in  its  place  had  slowly  rotted  : 
The  floor  alone  retained  the  trace  of  guilt, 
Those  boards  obscurely  spotted. 

Obscurely  spotted  to  the  door,  and  thence 
With  mazy  doubles  to  the  grated  casement — 
Oh  what  a  tale  they  told  of  fear  intense, 
Of  horror  and  amazement ! 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 


137 


What  human  creature  in  the  dead  of  night 
Had  coursed  like  hunted  hare  that  cruel  distance  ? 
Had  sought  the  door,  the  window  in  his  flight, 
Striving  for  dear  existence  ? 

What  shrieking  spirit  in  that  bloody  room 
Its  mortal  frame  had  violently  quitted? — 
Across  the  sunbeam,  with  a  sudden  gloom, 
A  ghostly  shadow  flitted. 

Across  the  sunbeam,  and  along  the  wall, 
But  painted  on  the  air  so  very  dimly, 
It  hardly  veiled  the  tapestry  at  all, 
Or  portrait  frowning  grimly. 

O'er  all  there  hung  the  shadow  of  a  fear, 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  ?lace  is  haunted  ! 


138 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


LIFE  IN  THE  SICK  ROOM.* 


Of  all  the  know-nothing  persons  in  this  world,  commend  us  to 
the  man  who  has  "  never  known  a  day's  illness."  He  is  a  moral 
dunce  ;  one  who  has  lost  the  greatest  lesson  in  life  ;  who  has 
skipped  the  finest  lecture  in  that  great  school  of  humanity,  the 
Sick  Chamber.  Let  him  be  versed  in  mathematics,  profound 
in  metaphysics,  a  ripe  scholar  in  the  classics,  a  bachelor  of  arts, 
or  even  a  doctor  in  divinity,  yet  is  he  as  one  of  those  gentlemen 
whose  education  has  been  neglected.  For  all  his  college  ac- 
quirements, how  inferior  is  he  in  wholesome  knowledge  to  the 
mortal  who  has  had  but  a  quarter's  gout,  or  a  half-year  of  ague 
— how  infinitely  below  the  fellow-creature  who  has  been  soundly 
taught  his  tic-douloureux,  thoroughly  grounded  in  the  rheuma- 
tics, and  deeply  red  in  the  scarlet  fever  !  And  yet,  what  is  more 
common  than  to  hear  a  great  hulking,  florid  fellow,  bragging  of 
an  ignorance,  a  brutal  ignorance,  that  he  shares  in  common 
with  the  pig  and  the  bullock,  the  generality  of  which  die,  proba- 
bly, without  ever  having  experienced  a  day's  indisposition  1 

To  such  a  monster  of  health  the  volume  before  us  will  be  a 
sealed  book  ;  for  how  can  he  appreciate  its  allusions  to  physical 
suffering,  whose  bodily  annoyance  has  never  reached  beyond  a 
slight  tickling  of  the  epidermis,  or  the  tingling  of  a  foot  gone 
to  sleep  ?  How  should  he,  who  has  sailed  through  life  with  a 
clean  bill  of  health,  be  able  to  sympathize  with  the  feelings,  or 
the  quiet  sayings  and  doings,  of  an  invalid  condemned  to  a  life- 
long quarantine  in  his  chamber  ?  What  should  he  know  of 
Life  in  the  Sick  Room  ?  As  little  as  our  poor  paralytic  grand- 
mother knows  of  Life  in  London. 


*  Life  in  the  Sick  Room.    By  an  Invalid.  Moxon 


LIFE  IN  THE  SICK  ROOM. 


139 


With  ourselves  it  is  otherwise.  Afflicted  for  twenty  years 
with  a  complication  of  disorders,  the  least  of  which  is  elephan- 
tiasis— bedridden  on  the  broad  of  our  back  till  it  became  nar- 
row— and  then  confined  to  our  chamber  as  rigidly  as  if  it  had 
been  a  cell  in  the  Pentonville  Penitentiary — we  are  in  a  fit  state, 
body  and  mind,  to  appreciate  such  a  production  as  Mr.  Moxon 
— not  the  Effervescing  Magnesian,  but  the  worthy  publisher — 
has  forwarded  with  so  much  sagacity,  or  instinct,  to  our  own 
sick  ward.  The  very  book  for  us  !  if,  indeed,  we  are  not  actu- 
ally the  Anonymous  of  its  dedication — the  very  fellow-sufferer 
on  whose  sympathy — "  confidently  reckoned  on  though  un- 
asked," the  Invalid  author  so  implicitly  relies.  We  certainly 
do  sympathize  most  profoundly  ;  and  as  certainly  we  are  a 
great  sufferer, — the  greatest,  perhaps,  in  England,  except  the 
poor  incurable  man  who  is  always  being  cured  by  Holloway's 
Ointment. 

Enough  of  ourselves: — and  now  for  the  book.  The  first 
thing  that  struck  us,  on  the  perusal,  was  a  very  judicious  omis- 
sion. Most  writers  on  such  a  topic  as  the  sick-room  would  have 
begun  by  recommending  some  pet  doctor,  or  favorite  remedy 
for  all  diseases ;  whereas  the  author  has  preferred  to  advise  on 
the  selection  of  an  eligible  retreat  for  laying  up  for  life,  and 
especially  of  a  window  towards  that  good  aspect,  the  face  of 
Nature.  And  truly,  a  long  term  of  infirm  health  is  such  a 
very  bad  look  out,  as  to  require  some  better  prospect  elsewhere. 
For,  not  to  mention  a  church-yard,  or  a  dead  wall,  what  can  be 
worse  for  a  sick  prisoner,  than  to  pass  year  after  year  in  some 
dull  street,  contemplating  some  dull  house,  never  new-fronted,  or 
even  insured  in  a  new  fire-office,  to  add  a  new  plate  to  the  two 
old  ones  under  the  middle  window  ?  What  more  dreadful  than 
to  be  driven  by  the  monotony  outside  to  the  sameness  within,  till 
the  very  figures  of  the  chintz  curtain  are  daguerreotyped  on  the 
brain,  or  the  head  seems  lined  with  a  paper  of  the  same  pattern 
as  the  one  on  the  wall  ?  How  much  better,  for  soul  and  body, 
for  the  invalid  to  gaze  on  such  a  picture  as  this : — 

"  Between  my  window  and  the  sea  is  a  green  down,  as  green  as  any  field 
in  Ireland  ;  and  on  the  nearer  half  of  this  down,  haymaking  goes  forward 


140 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


in  its  season.  It  slopes  down  to  a  hollow,  where  the  prior  of  old  preserved 
his  fish,  there  being  sluices  formerly  at  either  end,  the  one  opening  upon 
the  river,  and  the  other  upon  the  little  haven  below  the  priory,  whose  ruins 
still  crown  the  rock.  From  the  prior's  fish-pond,  the  green  down  slopes 
upwards  again  to  a  ridge ;  and  on  the  slope  are  cows  grazing  all  summer, 
and  half  way  into  the  winter.  Over  the  ridge,  I  survey  the  harbor  and  all 
its  traffic,  the  view  extending  from  the  light-houses  far  to  the  right,  to  a 
horizon  of  sea  to  the  left.  Beyond  the  harbor  lies  another  county,  with, 
first,  its  sandy  beach,  where  there  are  frequent  wrecks — too  interesting  to 
an  invalid — and  a  fine  stretch  of  rocky  shore  to  the  left ;  and  above  the 
rocks,  a  spreading  heath,  where  I  watch  troops  of  boys  flying  their  kites  ; 
lovers  and  friends  taking  their  breezy  walk  on  Sundays ;  the  sportsman 
with  his  gun  and  dog ;  and  the  washerwomen  converging  from  the  farm- 
houses on  Saturday  evenings,  to  carry  their  loads,  in  company,  to  the  village 
on  the  yet  further  height.  I  see  them,  now  talking  in  a  cluster,  as  they 
walk  each  with  her  white  burden  on  her  head,  and  now  in  file,  as  they 
pass  through  the  narrow  lane  ;  and  finally  they  part  off  on  the  village 
green,  each  to  some  neighboring  house  of  the  gentry.  Behind  the  village 
and  the  heath,  stretches  the  railroad ;  and  I  watch  the  train  triumphantly 
careering  along  the  level  road,  and  puffing  forth  its  steam  above  hedges  and 
groups  of  trees,  and  then  laboring  and  panting  up  the  ascent,  till  it  is  lost 
between  two  heights,  which  at  last  bound  my  view.  But  on  these  heights 
are  more  objects  ;  a  windmill  now  in  motion  and  now  at  rest ;  a  lime-kiln, 
in  a  picturesque  rocky  field ;  an  ancient  church  tower,  barely  visible  in 
the  morning,  but  conspicuous  when  the  setting  sun  shines  upon  it;  a  col- 
liery, with  its  lofty  wagon-way,  and  the  self-moving  wagons  running  hither 
and  thither,  as  if  in  pure  wilfulness ;  and  three  or  four  farms,  at  various 
degrees  of  ascent,  whose  yards,  paddocks,  and  dairies,  I  am  better  acquainted 
with  than  their  inhabitants  would  believe  possible.  I  know  every  stack 
of  the  one  on  the  heights.  Against  the  sky  I  see  the  stacking  of  corn  and  hay 
in  the  season,  and  can  detect  the  slicing  away  of  the  provender,  with  an 
accurate  eye,  at  the  distance  of  several  miles.  I  can  follow  the  sociable 
farmer  in  his  summer-evening  ride,  pricking  on  in  the  lanes  where  he  is 
alone,  in  order  to  have  more  time  for  the  unconscionable  gossip  at  the  gate 
of  the  next  farm-house,  and  for  the  second  talk  over  the  paddock-fence  of 
the  next,  or  for  the  third,  or  fourth  before  the  porch,  or  over  the  wall,  when 
the  resident  farmer  comes  out,  pipe  in  mouth,  and  puffs  away  amidst 
his  chat  till  the  wife  appears,  with  a  shawl  over  her  cap,  to  see  what  can 
detain  him  so  long ;  and  the  daughter  follows,  with  her  gown  turned  over 
head  (for  it  is  now  chill  evening),  and  at  last  the  social  horseman  finds  he 
must  be  going,  looks  at  his  watch,  and,  with  a  gesture  of  surprise,  turns 
hrs  steed  down  a  steep  broken  way  to  the  beach,  and  canters  home  over  the 
sands,  left  hard  and  wet  by  the  ebbing  tide,  the  white  horse  making  his  pro- 
gress visible  to  me  through  the  dusk.  Then  if  the  question  arises  which 
has  most  of  the  gossip  spirit,  he  or  I,  there  is  no  shame  in  the  answer.  Any 
such  small  amusement  is  better  than  harmless — is  salutary — which  carries 


LIFE  IN  THE  SICK  ROOM. 


the  spirit  of  the  sick  prisoner  abroad  into  the  open  air,  and  among  country 
people.  When  I  shut  down  my  window,  I  feel  that  my  mind  has  had  an 
airing." 

Here  is  another  : — 

"  The  sun,  resting  on  the  edge  of  the  sea,  was  hidden  from  me  by  the 
walls  of  the  old  Priory :  but  a  flood  of  rays  poured  through  the  windows 
of  the  ruin,  and  gushed  over  the  waters,  strewing  them  with  diamonds,  and 
then  across  the  green  down  before  my  windows,  gilding  its  furrows,  and 
then  lighting  up  the  yellow  sands  on  the  opposite  shore  of  the  harbor, 
while  the  market-garden  below  was  glittering  with  dew  and  busy  with  early 
bees  and  butterflies.  Besides  these  bees  and  butterflies,  nothing  seemed 
stirring,  except  the  earliest  riser  of  the  neighborhood,  to  whom  the  garden 
belongs.  At  the  moment,  she  was  passing  down  to  feed  her  pigs,  and  let 
out  her  cows ;  and  her  easy  pace,  arms  a-kimbo,  and  complacent  survey  of 
her  early  greens,  presented  me  with  a  picture  of  ease  so  opposite  to  my 
own  state,  as  to  impress  me  ineffaceably.  I  was  suffering  too  much  to  enjoy 
this  picture  at  the  moment :  but  how  was  it  at  the  end  of  the  year  ?  The 
pains  of  all  those  hours  were  annihilated— as  completely  vanished  as  if 
they  had  never  been ;  while  the  momentary  peep  behind  the  window-cur- 
tain made  me  possessor  of  this  radiant  picture  for  evermore." 

The  mention  of  pictures  reminds  us  of  certain  ones,  and  a 
commentary  whence  the  reader  may  derive  either  a  recipe,  or 
a  warning,  as  he  desires  to  be,  or  not  to  be,  an  invalid  for  the 
remainder  of  his  life.  O  !  those  beautiful  pictures  by  our 
favorite  Cuyp,  with  their  rich  atmosphere  as  of  golden  sherry 
and  water !  That  gorgeous  light  flooding  the  wide  level  pas- 
ture,— clinging  to  tree  and  stone,  and  trickling  over  into  their 
shadows — a  liquid  radiance,  we  used  to  fancy  we  could  wring 
out  of  the  glowing  herbage,  and  catch  dripping  from  the  sleek 
side  of  the  dappled  cow !  Sad  experience  has  made  us  per- 
sonally acquainted  with  the  original  soil  and  climate  of  those 
scenes,  and  has  painfully  taught  us  that  the  rich  glowing  atmo- 
sphere was  no  such  wholesome  aerial  negus  as  we  supposed,  but 
a  mixture  of  sunshine  and  humid  exhalations,  lovely  but  nox- 
ious— a  gilded  ague,  an  illuminated  fever,  a  glorified  pestilence, 
— which  poisons  the  springs  of  life  at  their  source.  Breathe  it, 
in  bad  health,  and  your  fugitive  complaints  will  become  chronic, 
— regular  standards,  entwined  in  all  their  branches  by  the  para- 
sitic low  slow  fever  of  the  swamp.    In  short,  you  will  probably 


L4S 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


be  set  in  for  a  long  season  of  foul  bodily  weather,  and  may  at 
once  consult  our  invalid  how  to  play  the  part  in  a  becoming 
manner,  and  "  enjoy  bad  health  "  with  something  of  the  cheer- 
ful  philosophic  spirit  of  the  family  man,  who  on  being  asked  if 
he  had  not  a  "  sick-house,"  replied,  "  Yes — but  I've  a  well  stair- 
case." 

The  first  grand  step  towards  laying  up  in  ordinary  is  to  get 
rid  of  the  superb  egotism  and  splendid  selfishness  of  the  con- 
dition. Lamb,  in  one  of  his  essays,  has  vividly  described  the 
gloomy  absolutism  of  the  sick  man,  obsequiously  waited  on  by 
his  household  slaves,  eager  to  anticipate  his  every  want  and 
wish,  and  to  administer  to  his  merest  whims  and  caprices.  And, 
for  a  short  reign,  such  a  tyranny  may  pass,  but  the  confirmed 
invalid  must  prepare  for  a  more  moderate  rule  ;  a  limited 
monarchy  instead  of  a  despotism.  It  requires  some  self-sacri- 
fice to  renounce  such  autocratical  power,  and  will  need  much 
vigilance  to  prevent  a  relapse.  But  who,  save  a  domestic  Nero, 
would  wish  to  indulge  in  such  ill  behavior  as  the  following,  for 
a  permanence  ? 

"  I  have  known  the  most  devoted  and  benevolent  of  women  call  up  her 
young  nurse  from  a  snatch  of  sleep  at  two  in  the  morning,  to  read  aloud, 
when  she  had  been  reading  aloud  for  six  or  seven  hours  of  the  preceding 
day.  I  have  known  a  kind-hearted  and  self-denying  man  require  of  two 
or  three  members  of  his  family  to  sit  and  talk  and  be  merry  in  his  cham- 
ber, two  or  three  hours  after  midnight :  and  both  for  want  of  a  mere  intima- 
tion that  it  was  night,  and  time  for  the  nurse's  rest.  How  it  makes  one 
shudder  to  think  of  this  being  one's  own  case  !" 

It  is  rather  difficult  to  believe  in  the  habitual  benevolence  or 
considerateness  of  the  parties  who  needed  a  broad  hint  on  such 
matters  ;  and  yet  real  illness  may  make  even  a  self-denying 
nature  somewhat  exigeant,  when  mere  fanciful  ailment  renders 
selfishness  so  intensely  selfish.  Ask  the  physician,  surgeon, 
and  apothecary,  and  they  will  tell  you,  that  for  every  hard- 
hearted medical  man,  who  refuses  or  delays  to  attend  on  the 
urgent  seizures  and  accidents  of  the  poor,  there  are  thousands 
of  practitioners  dragged  from  their  warm  beds  at  night,  through 
wind,  rain,  snow,  sleet,  hail,  and  thunder  and  lightning — over 


LIFE  IN  THE  SICK  ROOM. 


143 


heaths  ana  tnrough  marshes,  and  along  country  cross-roads — 
at  the  risk  of  catarrh,  rheumatism,  ague,  bronchitis,  and  in- 
flammation— of  falls,  fractures,  and  footpads — on  the  most  frivo- 
lous pretences  that  wealth  and  the  vapors  can  invent.  There 
is  even  a  perversity  in  some  natures  that  would  find  a  dirty 
comfort  in  the  muddy  discomfort  of  an  Esculapius  soused  in 
provincial  muck,  like  Doctor  Slop,  by  an  encounter  with  a  coach- 
horse — for  what  right  has  the  physician  to  enjoy  more  bodily 
ease  than  his  patient  ?  For  such  a  spirit  we  imperathely  pre- 
scribe a  chapter  of  "  Life  in  the  Sick-room,"  night  and  morn- 
ing, until  he  learns  that  the  very  worst  excuse  a  man  can  offer 
for  selfishness  is,  that  he  is  "not  quite  himself." 

There  is,  however,  another  peril  of  invalidism,  akin  to  the 
"  damning  of  sins  we  have  no  mind  to,"  described  in  Hudibras ; — 

"  We  are  in  ever-growing  danger  of  becoming  too  abstract,— of  losing 
our  sympathy  with  passing  emotions, — and  particularly  with  those  shared 
by  numbers.  There  was  a  time  we  went  to  public  worship  with  others, — 
to  the  theatre,— to  public  meetings  ;  when  we  were  present  at  picnic  par- 
ties and  other  festivals,  and  heard  general  conversation  every  day  of  our 
lives.  Now,  we  are  too  apt  to  forget  those  times.  The  danger  is,  lest  we 
should  get  to  despise  them,  and  to  fancy  ourselves  superior  to  our  former 
selves,  because  now  we  feel  no  social  transports." 

True.  We  have  ourselves  felt  a  touch  of  that  peril  in  our 
weaker  moments — on  some  dull,  cold,  wet  day,  when  our  pores, 
acting  inversely,  instead  of  throwing  off  moisture,  take  in  as 
much  as  they  can  collect  from  the  damp  atmosphere,  well 
chilled  by  an  easterly  wind.  At  such  times  a  sort  of  Zim- 
mermannishness  has  crept  over  us,  like  a  moral  gooseskin, 
inducing  a  low  estimate  enough  of  all  gregarious  enjoyments, 
public  meetings,  and  public  dinners ;  and,  above  all,  those  pub- 
lic choruses  on  Wilhem's  method,  at  Exeter  Hall.  What 
sympathy  can  We-by-ourselves-We  have  with  Music  for  a 
Million  1  But  the  fit  soon  evaporates,  when,  looking  into  the 
garden,  we  see  Theophilus  Junior,  that  second  edition  of  our 
boyhood,  in  default  of  brothers  or  playmates,  making  a  whole 
mob  of  himself,  or  at  the  least  a  troop  of  cavalry,  commanding 
for  the  captain,  huzzaing  for  the  soldiers,  blowing  flourishes  for 
the  trumpeter,  and  even  prancing,  neighing,  and  snorting  for  all 


144 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


the  horses !  One  dose  of  that  joyous  Socialism  is  a  cure  for 
our  worst  attack  of  the  mopes.  The  truth  is,  an  invalid's  mis- 
anthropy is  no  more  in  earnest  than  the  piety  of  the  sick  demon 
who  wanted  to  be  a  monk,  or  the  sentence  about  being  weary 
of  existence,  to  which  Hypochondriasis  puts  a  period  with  a 
Parr's  Life  Pill  ! 

A  more  serious  peril,  from  illness,  concerns  the  temper.  When 
the  nerves  are  irritable,  and  the  skin  is  irritable,  and  the  stomach  is 
irritable — not  to  be  irritable  altogether  is  a  moral  miracle ;  and 
especially  in  England,  where,  by  one  of  the  anomalies  of  the  consti- 
tution, whilst  a  man  cannot  be  tried  twice  for  the  same  offence, 
his  temper  may  be  tried  over  and  over  again  for  no  offence  at  all. 
Indeed,  as  our  author  says,  "  there  are  cases,  and  not  a  few, 
where  an  invalid's  freedom  from  irritability  is  a  merit  of  the 
highest  order."  For  example,  after  soot  in  your  gruel,  tallow 
grease  in  your  barley-water,  and  snuff  over  your  light  pudding, 
to  have  "  the  draught  as  before  "  poured  into  your  wakeful  eyes, 
instead  of  your  open  mouth,  by  a  drunken  Mrs.  Gamp,  or  one 
of  her'stamp.  To  check  at  such  a  moment  the  explosive  speech, 
is  at  least  equal  to  spiking  a  cannon  in  the  heat  of  battle. 
There  is  beyond  denial  an  ease  to  the  chest,  or  somewhere,  in  a 
passionate  objurgation — ("Swear,  my  dear,"  said  Fuseli  to  his 
wife,  "  it  will  relieve  you  ") — so  much  so,  that  a  certain  invalid 
of  our  acquaintance,  doubly  afflicted  with  a  painful  complaint, 
and  an  unmanageable  hard-mouthed  temper,  regularly  retains, 
as  helper  to  the  sick-nurse,  a  stone-deaf  old  woman,  whom  he 
can  abuse  without  violence  to  her  feelings. 

How  much  better  to  have  emulated  the  heavenly  patience  in 
sickness,  of  which  woman — in  spite  of  Job — has  given  the 
brightest  examples  ; — Woman,  who  endures  the  severest  trials, 
with  a  meekness  and  submission,  unheard  of  amongst  men,  the 
quaker  excepted,  who  merely  said,  when  his  throat  was  being 
cut  rather  roughly — "  Friend,  thee  dost  haggle." 

It  must  not  be  concealed,  however,  as  regards  irritability  of 
temper  in  the  sick-room — there  are  faults  on  both  sides — cap- 
tious nurses  as  well  as  querulous  nurselings.  Cross-patches 
themselves,  they  willingly  mistake  the  tones  and  accents  of  in- 
tolerable anguish,  naturally  sharp  and  hurried,  for  those  of 


LIFE  IN  THE  SICK  ROOM. 


145 


anger  and  impatience — and  even  accuse  pain,  in  its  contor- 
tions, of  making  faces,  and  set  up  their  backs  at  the  random 
speeches  of  poor  delirium  !  Then  there  are  your  lecturers, 
who  preach  patience  in  the  very  climax  of  a' paroxysm,  when 
the  sermon  can  scarcely  be  heard,  certainly  not  understood — as 
if  a  martyr,  leaping  mad  with  the  toothache,  could  be  calmed 
by  reading  to  him  the  advertisement  of  the  American  Soothing 
Syrup !  And  then  there  is  the  she-dragon,  who  bullies  the 
sufferer  into  comparative  quiet !  Not  that  the  best  of  attendants 
is  the  smooth-tongued.  Our  invalid  objects  wisely  to  the  sick 
being  flattered,  in  season  or  out,  with  false  hopes  and  views. 
As  much  panada,  sago,  or  arrowroot  as  you  please,  but  no  flum- 
mery. 

"  Let  the  nurse  avow  that  the  medicine  is  nauseous.  Let  the  physician 
declare  that  the  treatment  will  be  painful.  Let  sister,  or  brother,  or  friend, 
tell  me  that  I  must  never  look  to  be  well.  When  the  time  approaches  that 
I  am  to  die,  let  me  be  told  that  I  am  to  die,  and  when.  If  I  encroach 
thoughtlessly  on  the  time  or  strength  of  those  about  me,  let  me  be  reminded ; 
if  selfishly,  let  me  be  remonstrated  with.  Thus  to  speak  the  truth  with 
love  is  in  the  power  of  us  all." 

And  so  say  we.  There  is  nothing  worse  for  soul  or  body 
than  the  feverish  agitation  kept  up  by  the  struggle  between  ex- 
ternal assurances  and  the  internal  conviction ;  for  the  mind 
will  cling  with  forlorn  pertinacity  to  the  most  desperate  chance, 
like  the  sailor,  who,  when  the  ship  was  in  danger  of  sinking, 
lashed  himself  to  the  sheet-anchor  because  it  was  the  emblem 
of  Hope.  Till  the  truth  is  known  there  can  be  no  calm  of 
mind.  It  is  only  after  he  has  abandoned  all  prospects  of  par- 
don or  reprieve,  that  the  capital  convict  sleeps  soundly  and 
dreams  of  green  fields.  So  with  ourselves,  once  satisfied  that 
our  case  was  beyond  remedy,  we  gave  up  without  reserve  all 
dreams  of  future  health  and  strength,  and  prepared,  instead, 
to  compete  with  that  very  able  invalid  who  was  able  to  be 
knocked  down  with  a  feather.  Thenceforward,  free  of  those 
jarring  vibrations  between  hope  and  fear,  relieved  from  all 
tantalizing  speculations  on  the  weather's  clearing  up,  our  state 
has  been  one  of  comparative  peace  and  ease.    We  would  not 

Part  ii.  11 


146 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


give  one  of  our  Pectoral  Lozenges  to  be  told,  we  are  looking 
better  than  a  month  ago — not  a  splinter  of  our  broken  crutch 
to  be  promised  a  new  lease  of  life — a  renewal  of  our  youth  like 
the  eagle's  !  Such  flatteries  go  in  at  one  ear,  the  deaf  one,  and 
out  at  the  other.  We  never  shall  be  well  again,  till  broken 
bones  are  mended  with  "soft-sawder." 

Are  we,  therefore,  miserable,  hypped,  disconsolate  ?  Answer, 
ye  book-shelves,  whence  we  draw  the  consolations  of  Philoso- 
phy, the  dreams  of  Poetry  and  Romance — the  retrospections  of 
History  ;  and  glimpses  of  society  from  the  better  novels  ;  mirth, 
comfort,  and  entertainment  even  for  those  small  hc.urs  become  so 
long  from  an  unhealthy  vigilance.  Answer,  ye  pictures  and 
prints,  a  Portrait  Gallery  of  Nature ! — and  reply  in  your  own 
tones,  dear  old  fiddle,  so  often  tuned  to  one  favorite  sadly-sweet 
air,  and  the  words  of  Curran : 

"  But  since  in  wailing 
There's  naught  availing, 
But  Death  unfailing 
Must  strike  the  blow, 
Then  for  this  reason, 
And  for  a  season, 
Let  us  be  merry  before  we  go  !" 

It  is  melancholy,  doubtless,  to  retire,  in  the  prime  of  life,  from 
the  whole  wide  world,  into  the  narrow  prison  of  a  sick-room. 
How  much  worse  if  that  room  be  a  wretched  garret,  with  the 
naked  tiles  above  and  the  bare  boards  below — no  swinging 
bookshelf — not  a  penny  colored  print  on  the  blank  wall !  And 
yet  that  forlorn  attic  is  but  the  type  of  a  more  dreadful  destitu- 
tion, an  unfurnished  mind  !  The  mother  of  Bloomfield  used  to 
say,  that  to  encounter  Old  Age,  Winter,  and  Poverty,  was  like 
meeting  three  giants';  she  might  have  added  two  more  as  huge 
and  terrible,  Sickness,  and  Ignorance — the  last  not  the  least  of 
the  Monster  Evils ;  for  it  is  he  who  affects  pauperism  with  a 
deeper  poverty — the  beggary  of  the  mind  and  soul. 

"  I  have  said  how  unavailing  is  luxury  when  the  body  is  distressed  and 
the  spirit  faint.  At  such  times,  and  at  all  times,  We  cannot  but  be  deeply 
grieved  at  the  conception  of  the  converse  of  our  own  state,  at  the  thought 


LIFE  IN  THE  SICK  ROOM. 


147 


of  the  multitude  of  the  poor  suffering  under  privation,  without  the  support 
and  solace  of  great  ideas.  It  is  sad  enough  to  think  of  them  on  a  winter's 
night,  aching  with  cold  in  every  limb,  and  sunk  as  low  as  we  in  nerve  and 
spirits,  from  their  want  of  sufficient  food.  But  this  thought  is  supportable 
in  cases  where  we  may  fairly  hope  that  the  greatest  ideas  are  cheering  them 
aa  we  are  cheered ;  that  there  is  a  mere  set-off  of  their  cold  and  hunger 
against  our  disease ;  and  that  we  are  alike  inspired  by  spiritual  vigor  in  the 
belief  that  our  Father  is  with  us — that  we  are  only  encountering  the  proba- 
tions of  our  pilgrimage — that  we  have  a  divine  work  given  us  to  carry  out, 
now  in  pain  and  now  in  joy.  There  is  comfort  in  the  midst  of  the  sadness 
and  shame  when  we  are  thinking  of  the  poor  who  can  reflect  and  pray— of 
the  old  woman  who  was  once  a  punctual  and  eager  attendant  at  church — of 
the  wasting  child  who  was  formerly  a  Sunday-scholar — of  the  reduced  gen- 
tleman or  destitute  student  who  retain  the  privilege  of  their  humanity — of 
'  looking  before  and  after.'  But  there  is  no  mitigation  of  the  horror  when 
we  think  of  the  savage  poor,  who  form  so  large  a  proportion  of  the  hun- 
gerers — when  we  conceive  of  them  suffering  the  privation  of  all  good  things 
at  once — suffering  under  the  aching  cold,  the  sinking  hunger,  the  shivering 
nakedness — without  the  respite  or  solace  afforded  by  one  inspiring  or  beguil- 
ing idea. 

"  I  will  not  dwell  on  the  reflection.  A  glimpse  into  this  hell  ought  to 
suffice  (though  we  to  whom  imagery  comes  unbidden,  and  cannot  be  ban- 
rshed  at  will,  have  to  bear  much  more  than  occasional  glimpses) ;  a  glimpse 
ought  to  suffice  to  set  all  to  work  to  procure  for  every  one  of  these  sufferers, 
bread  and  warmth,  if  possible,  and  as  soon  as  possible ;  but  above  every- 
thing, and  without  the  loss  of  an  hour,  an  entrance  upon  their  spiritual 
birthright.  Every  man,  and  every  woman,  however  wise  and  tender,  ap- 
pearing and  designing  to  be,  who  for  an  hour  helps  to  keep  closed  the  en- 
trance to  the  region  of  ideas — who  stands  between  sufferers  and  great 
thoughts  (which  are  the  angels  of  consolation  sent  by  God  to  all  to  whom 
he  has  given  souls),  are,  in  so  far,  ministers  of  hell,  not  themselves  inflict- 
ing torment,  but  intercepting  the  influences  which  would  assuage  or  over- 
power it.  Let  the  plea  be  heard  of  us  sufferers  who  know  well  the  power 
of  ideas — our  plea  for  the  poor — that,  while  we  are  contriving  for  all  to  be 
fed  and  cherished  by  food  and  fire,  we  may  meanwhile  kindle  the  immortal 
vitality  within  them,  and  give  them  that  ethereal  solace  and  sustenance 
which  was  meant  to  be  shared  by  all,  '  without  money  and  without  price.'  " 

Never,  then,  tell  a  man,  permanently  sick,  that  he  will  again 
be  a  perfect  picture  of  health  when  he  has  not  the  frame  for  it — 
nor  hint  to  a  sick  woman,  incurably  smitten,  that  the  seeds  of 
her  disease  will  flourish  and  flower  into  lilies  and  roses.  Why- 
deter  them  from  providing  suitable  pleasures  and  enjoyments 
to  replace  those  delights  of  health  and  strength  of  which  they 


148 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


must  take  leave  forever?  Why  not  rather  forewarn  them  of 
the  Lapland  Winter  to  which  they  are  destined,  and  to  trim  their 
lamps  spiritual,  for  the  darkness  of  a  long  seclusion  ?  Tell 
them  their  doom  ;  and  let  them  prepare  themselves  for  it,  ac- 
cording to  the  Essays  before  us,  so  healthy  in  tone,  though  from 
a  confirmed  invalid — so  wholesome  and  salutary,  though  fur- 
nished from  a  Sick  Room. 


AN  AUTOGRAPH. 


149 


AN  AUTOGRAPH. 


To  D.  A.  A.,  Esq.,  Edinburgh. 

I  am  much  flattered  by  your  request,  and  quite  willing  to 
accede  to  it ;  but,  unluckily,  you  have  omitted  to  inform  me  of 
the  sort  of  thing  you  want. 

Autographs  are  of  many  kinds.  Some  persons  chalk  them  on 
walls :  others  inscribe  what  may  be  called  auto-lithographs,  in 
sundry  colors,  on  the  flag  stones.  Gentlemen  in  love  delight  in 
carving  their  autographs  on  the  bark  of  trees ;  as  other  idle  fel- 
lows are  apt  to  hack  and  hew  them  on  tavern-benches  and  rustic 
seats.  Amongst  various  modes,  I  have  seen  a  shop-boy  dribble 
his  autograph  from  a  tin  of  water  on  a  dry  pavement. 

The  autographs  of  the  Charity  Boys  are  written  on  large 
sheets  of  paper,  illuminated  with  engravings,  and  are  technically 
called  "pieces."  The  celebrated  Miss  Biffin  used  to  distribute 
autographs  amongst  her  visitors,  which  she  wrote  with  a  pen 
grasped  between  her  teeth.  Another,  a  German  Phenomenon, 
held  the  implement  with  his  toes. 

The  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask  scratched  an  autograph  with  his 
fork  on  a  silver  plate,  and  threw  it  out  of  the  window.  Baron 
Trenck  smudged  one  with  a  charred  stick :  and  Silvio  Pellico, 
with  his  fore-finger  dipped  in  a  mixture  of  soot-and-water. 

Lord  Chesterfield  wrote  autographs  on  windows  with  a  dia- 
mond pencil.    So  did  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  and  Queen  Elizabeth. 

Draco,  when  Themis  requested  a  few  sentences  for  her  album, 
dipped  his  stylus  in  human  blood.  Faust  used  the  same  fluid  in 
the  autograph  he  bartered  with  Mephistophiles. 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


The  Hebrews  write  their  Shpargotua  backwards ;  and  some 
of  the  Orientals  used  to  clothe  them  in  hieroglyphics.  An  ancient 
Egyptian,  if  asked  for  his  autograph,  would  probably  have  sent 
to  the  collector  a  picture  of  what  Mrs.  Malaprop  calls  "  An  Al- 
legory on  the  Banks  of  the  Nile." 

Aster,  the  Archer,  volunteered  an  autograph  and  sent  it  bang 
into  Phillip's  right  eye. 

Some  individuals  are  so  chary  of  their  hand-writing  as  to 
bestow,  when  requested,  only  a  mark  or  cross : — others  more 
liberally  adorn  a  specimen  of  their  penmanship  with  such  ex- 
traneous flourishes  as  a  corkscrew,  a  serpent,  or  a  circumbendi- 
bus, not  to  mention  such  caligraphic  fancies  as  eagles,  ships, 
and  swans. 

Then  again,  there  are  what  may  be  called  Mosaic  Autographs 
— i.  e.  inlaid  with  cockle-shells,  blue  and  white  pebbles,  and  the 
like,  in  a  little  gravel  walk.  Our  grandmothers  worked  their 
autographs  in  canvass  samplers ;  and  I  have  seen  one  wrought 
out  with  pins'  heads  on  a  huge  white  pincushion — as  thus : 

WELCOME  SWEET  BABBY. 

MARY  JONES. 

When  the  sweetheart  of  Mr.  John  Junk  requested  his  auto- 
graph, and  explained  what  it  was,  namely,  "  a  couple  of  lines 
or  so,  with  his  name  to  it,"  he  replied,  that  he  would  leave  it  to 
her  in  his  Will,  seeing  as  how  it  was  "  done  with  gunpowder  on 
his  left  arm." 

There  have  even  been  autographs  written  by  proxy.  For 
example,  Dr.  Dodd  penned  one  for  Lord  Chesterfield ;  but  to 
oblige  a  stranger  in  this  way  is  very  dangerous,  considering  how 
easily  a  few  lines  may  be  twisted  into  a  rope. 

According  to  Lord  Byron,  the  Greek  girls  compound  auto- 
graphs as  apothecaries  make  up  prescriptions, — with  such  mate- 
rials as  flowers,  herbs,  ashes,  pebbles,  and  bits  of  coal.  Lord 
Byron  himself,  if  asked  for  a  specimen  of  his  hand,  would  pro- 
bably have  sent  a  plaster  cast  of  it. 

King  George  the  Fourth  and  the  Duke  of  York,  when  their 
autographs  were  requested  for  a  Keepsake, — royally  favored  the 
applicant  with  some  of  their  old  Latin-English  exercises. 


AN  AUTOGRAPH. 


151 


With  regard  to  my  own  particular  practice,  I  have  often  traced 
an  autograph  with  my  walking-stick  on  the  sea-sand.  I  also 
seem  to  remember  writing  one  with  my  fore-finger  on  a  dusty 
table,  and  am  pretty  sure  I  could  do  it  with  the  smoke  of  a 
candle  on  the  ceiling.  I  have  seen  something  like  a  very  badly 
scribbled  autograph  made  by  children  with  a  thread  of  treacle 
on  a  slice  of  suet  dumpling.  Then  it  may  be  done  with  vege- 
tables. My  little  girl  grew  her  autograph  the  other  day  in  mus- 
tard and  cress. 

Domestic  servants,  I  have  observed,  are  fond  of  scrawling 
autographs  on  a  teaboard  with  the  slopped  milk.  Also  of  scratch- 
ing them  on  a  soft  deal  dresser,  the  lead  of  the  sink,  and.  above 
all,  the  quicksilver  side  of  a  looking-glass — a  surface,  by  the 
bye,  quite  irresistible  to  any  one  who  can  write,  and  does  not 
bite  his  nails. 

A  friend  of  mine  possesses  an  autograph — "  Remember  Jim 
Hoskins  " — done  with  a  red-hot  poker  on  the  back-kitchen  door. 
This,  however,  is  awkward  to  bind  up. 

Another — but  a  young  lady — possesses  a  book  of  autographs, 
filled  just  like  a  tailor's  pattern-book — with  samples  of  stuff  and 
fustian. 

The  foregoing,  sir,  are  but  a  few  of  the  varieties  ;  and  the 
questions  that  have  occurred  to  me  in  consequence  of  your  only 
naming  the  genus,  and  not  the  species,  have  been  innume- 
rable. Would  the  gentleman  like  it  short  or  long  ?  for  Doppel- 
dickius,  the  learned  Dutchman,  wrote  an  autograph  for  a  friend, 
which  the  latter  published  in  a  quarto  volume.  Would  he  prefer 
it  in  red  ink,  or  black, — or  suppose  he  had  it  in  Sympathetic,  so 
that  he  could  draw  me  out  when  he  pleased  ?  Would  he  choose 
it  on  white  paper,  or  tinted,  or  embossed,  or  on  common  brown 
paper,  like  Maroncelli's  ?  Would  he  like  it  without  my  name 
to  it — as  somebody  favored  me  lately  with  his  autograph  in  an 
anonymous  letter  ?  Would  he  rather  it  were  like  Guy  Faux's 
to  Lord  Mounteagle  (not  Spring  Rice),  in  a  feigned  hand  ? 
Would  he  relish  it  in  the  aristocratical  style,  i.  e.,  partially  or 
totally  illegible  ?  Would  he  like  it — in  case  he  shouldn't  like 
it — on  a  slate  1 

With  such  a  maze  to  wander  in,  if  I  should  not  take  the  exact 


152  PROSE  AND  VERSE. 

course  you  wish,  you  must  blame  the  short  and  insufficient  clue 
you  have  afforded  me.  In  the  mean  time,  as  you  have  not  for- 
warded to  me  a  tree  or  a  table, — a  paving-stone  or  a  brick  wall, 
— a  looking-glass  or  a  window, — a  teaboard  or  a  silver  plate, — ■ 
a  bill-stamp  or  a  back-kitchen  door, — I  presume,  to  conclude, 
that  you  want  only  a  common  pen-ink-and-paper  autograph  ;  and 
in  the  absence  of  any  particular  direction  for  its  transmission, — 
for  instance,  by  a  carrier-pigeon — or  in  a  fire-balloon — or  set 
adrift  in  a  bottle — or  per  wagon — or  favored  by  Mr.  Waghorn — 
or  by  telegraph,  I  think  the  best  way  will  be  to  send  it  to  you  in 
print. 

I  am,  Sir, 
Your  most  obedient  Servant, 

Thomas  Hood-. 


DOMESTIC  MESMERISM. 


153 


DOMESTIC  MESMERISM. 


"  Gape,  sinner,  and  swallow." — Meg  Merrilies. 

It  is  now  just  a  year  since  we  reviewed  Miss  Martinead's  '{  Life 
in  the  Sick  Room,"  and  left  the  authoress  set  in  for  a  house-rid- 
den invalid,  alternating  between  her  bed  and  the  sofa;  unable  to 
walk  out  of  doors,  but  enjoying  through  her  window  and  a  tele- 
scope the  prospect  of  green  downs  and  heath,  an  old  priory,  a 
lime-kiln,  a  colliery  railway,  an  ancient  church,  a  windmill,  a 
farm,  with  hay  and  corn  stacks,  a  market-garden,  gossipping 
farmers,  sportsmen,  boys  flying  kites,  washerwomen,  a  dairy 
maid  feeding  pigs,  the  lighthouses,  harbor,  and  shipping  of  New- 
castle-on-Tyne,  and  a  large  assortment  of  objects,  pastoral, 
marine,  and  picturesque.  There  we  left  the  "  sick  prisoner," 
as  we  supposed,  quite  aware  of  a  condition  beyond  remedy,  and 
cheerfully  made  up  for  her  fate  by  the  help  of  philosophy,  lauda- 
num, and  Christian  resignation. 

There  never  was  a  greater  mistake.  Instead  of  the  presumed 
calm  submission  in  a  hopeless  case,  the  invalid  was  intently 
watching  the  progress  of  a  new  curative  legerdemain,  sympathiz- 
ing with  its  repudiated  professors,  and  secretly  intending  to  try 
whether  her  own  chronic  complaint  could  not  be  conjured  away 
with  a  "  Hey,  presto  !  pass  and  repass !"  like  a  pea  from  under 
the  thimble.  The  experiment,  it  seems,  has  been  made,  and  lo  ! 
like  one  of  the  patients  of  the  old  quacksalvers,  forth  comes  Miss 
Martineau  on  the  public  stage,  proclaiming  to  the  gaping  crowd 
how  her  long-standing,  inveterate  complaint,  that  baffled  all  the 
doctors,  has  been  charmed  away  like  a  wart,  and  that,  from  being 
a  helpless  cripple,  she  has  thrown  away  her  crutches,  literal  or 


r>4  PROSE  AND  VERSK 

metaphorical,  and  can  walk  a  mile  as  well  as  any  Milesian. 
And  this  miraculous  cure,  not  due  to  Holloway,  Pair,  Morison, 
or  any  of  the  rest  of  the  faculty,  not  to  any  marvellous  ointment, 
infallible  pills,  or  new  discovery  in  medicine,  but  solely  to  cer- 
tain magical  gesticulations,  as  safe,  pleasant,  and  easy  as  play- 
ing  at  cat's  cradle — in  short  by  mesmerism  ! 

Now  we  are,  as  we  have  said  before,  the  greatest  invalid  in 
England ;  with  a  complication  of  complaints  requiring  quite  a 
staff  of  physicians,  each  to  watch  and  treat  the  particular  disease 
which  he  has  made  his  peculiar  study :  as,  one  for  the  heart, 
another  for  the  lungs,  a  third  for  the  stomach,  a  fourth  for  the 
liver,  and  so  on.  Above  all,  we  are  incapable  of  pedestrian 
locomotion  ;  lamer  than  Crutched  Friars,  and,  between  gout  in 
our  ankles  and  rheumatism  in  our  knees,  could  as  easily  walk 
on  our  head,  like  Quilp's  boy,  as  on  our  legs.  It  would  delight 
us,  therefore,  to  believe  that  by  no  painful  operation,  but  only  a 
little  posture-making  behind  our  back  or  to  our  face,  we  could  be 
restored  to  the  use  of  our  precious  limbs,  to  walk  like  a  leaguer, 
and  run  again  like  a  renewed  bill.  But,  alas !  an  anxious 
examination  of  Miss  Martineau's  statements  has  satisfied  us  that 
there  is  no  chance  of  such  a  desirable  consummation  ;  that,  to 
use  a  common  phrase,  "  the  news  is  too  good  to  be  true."  We 
have  carefully  waded  through  the  Newcastle  letters,  occupying 
some  two  dozen  mortal  columns  of  the  "  Athenseum,"  and  with 
something  of  the  mystified  feeling  of  having  been  reading  by 
turns  and  snatches  in  Moore's  Almanac,  Zadkiel's  Astrology,  a 
dream -book,  and  a  treatise  on  metaphysics,  have  come  to  the 
sorrowful  conclusion  that  we  have  as  much  chance  of  a  cure  by 
mesmerism,  as  of  walking  a  thousand  miles  in  a  thousand  hours 
through  merely  reading  the  constant  advertisements  of  the  Patent 
Pedometer.  A  conviction  not  at  all  removed  by  an  actual 
encounter  with  a  professor,  who,  after  experimenting  on  the  palms 
of  our  hands  without  exciting  any  peculiar  sensation,  except 
that  quivering  of  the  diaphragm  which  results  from  suppressed 
laughter,  gravely  informed  us — slipping  through  a  pleasant  loop- 
hole of  retreat  from  all  difficulties — that  "we  were  not  in  a 
fit  state." 


DOMESTIC  MESMERISM 


155 


The  precise  nature  of  Miss  Martineau's  complair  t  is  not 
stated  ;  nor  is  it  material  to  be  known  except  to  the  professional 
man;  the  great  fact,  that  after  five  years' confinement  to  the 
house  she  can  walk  as  many  miles  without  fatigue,  thanks  to  the 
mysterious  Ism,  "  that  sadly  wants  a  new  name,"  is  a  sufficient 
subject  for  wonder,  curiosity,  and  common  sense,  to  discuss.  A 
result  obtained,  it  appears,  after  two  months  passed  under  the 
hands  of  three  several  persons — a  performance  that  must  be 
reckoned  rather  slow  for  a  miracle,  seeing  that  if  we  read  certain 
passages  aright,  a  mesmerizer,  "  with  a  white  hat  and  an  illumi- 
nated profile,  like  a  saint  or  an  angel,"  is  gifted  with  powers 
little,  if  at  all,  inferior  to  those  of  the  old  apostles.  The  delay, 
moreover,  throws  a  doubt  on  the  source  of  relief,  for  there  are 
many  diseases  to  which  such  an  interval  would  allow  of  a 
natural  remission. 

In  the  curative  process,  the  two  most  remarkable  phenomena 
were — 1st,  That  the  patient,  with  a  weasel-like  vigilance,  did 
not  go  as  usual  into  the  magnetic  sleep  or  trance  ;  and,  2dly, 
That  every  glorified  object  before  her  was  invested  with  a  pecu- 
liar light,  so  that  a  bust  of  Isis  burnt  with  a  phosphoric  splendor, 
and  a  black,  dirty,  Newcastle  steam-tug  shone  with  heavenly 
radiance.  Appearances,  for  which  we  at  once  take  the  lady's 
word,  but  must  decline  her  inference,  that  they  had  any  influ- 
ence in  setting  her  on  her  legs  again.  The  nerves,  and  the 
optic  ones  especially,  were,  no  doubt,  in  a  highly  excited  state ; 
but  that  a  five-year-old  lameness  derived  any  relaxation  from 
the  effulgence  we  will  believe,  when  the  broken  heart  of  a 
soldier's  widow  is  bound  up  by  a  general  illumination.  Indeed, 
we  remember  once  to  have  been  personally  visited  with  such 
lights,  that  we  saw  two  candles  instead  of  one — but  we  decidedly 
walked  the  worse  for  it. 

On  the  subject  of  other  visionary  appearances  Miss  Martineau 
is  less  explicit,  or  rather  tantalizingly  obscure  ;  for,  after  hinting 
that  she  has  seen  wonders  above  wonders,  instead  of  favoring  us 
with  her  revelations  or  mysteries,  like  Ainsworth  or  Eugene  Sue, 
she  plumply  says  that  she  means  to  keep  them  to  herself. 

"  Between  this  condition  and  the  mesmeric  sleep  there  is  a  state,  transient 
and  rare,  of  which  I  have  had  experience,  but  of  which  I  intend  to  give  no 


156 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


account.  A  somnambule  calls  it  a  glimmering  of  the  lights  of  somnambu 
lism  and  clairvoyance.  To  me  there  appears  nothing  like  glimmering  in  it 
The  ideas  that  I  have  snatched  from  it,  and  now  retain,  are,  of  all  ideas 
which  ever  visited  me,  the  most  lucid  and  impressive.  It  may  be  well  that 
they  are  incommunicable — partly  from  their  nature  and  relations,  and  partly 
from  their  unfitness  for  translation  into  mere  words.  I  will  only  say  that 
the  condition  is  one  of  no  1  nervous  excitement,'  as  far  as  experience  and 
outward  indications  can  be  taken  as  a  test.  Such  a  state  of  repose,  of  calm 
translucent  intellectuality,  I  had  never  conceived  of ;  and  no  reaction  fol- 
lowed, no  excitement  but  that  which  is  natural  to  every  one  who  finds  him- 
self in  possession  of  a  great  new  idea." 

So  that  whether  she  obtained  a  glimpse  of  the  New  Jerusalem, 
or  a  peep  into  the  World  of  Spirits,  or  saw  the  old  gentleman 
himself,  is  left  to  wide  conjecture.  Our  own  guess,  in  the 
absence  of  all  direction,  is,  that  she  enjoyed  a  mesmeric  transla- 
tion into  another  planet,  and  derived  her  great  .dea  from  the 
Man  in  the  Moon  ! 

This,  however,  is  not  the  only  suppression.  For  instance,  it 
is  said  that  one  of  the  strongest  powers  of  the  girl  J.,  the  somnam- 
bulist, was  the  discernment  of  disease,  its  condition  and  remedies  ; 
that  she  cleared  up  her  own  case  first,  prescribing  for  herself 
very  fluently,  and  then  medically  advised  Miss  Martineau,  and 
that  the  treatment  in  both  cases  succeeded.  Surely,  in  common 
charity  to  the  afflicted,  these  infallible  remedies  ought  to  have 
been  published  ;  their  nature  ought  to  have  been  indicated,  if 
only  to  enable  one  to  judge  of  supernatural  prescribing  com- 
pared with  professional  practice  ;  but  so  profound  a  silence  is 
preserved  on  these  points  as  to  lead  to  the  inevitable  conclusion, 
that  the  mesmeric  remedies,  like  the  quack  medicines,  are  to  be 
secured  by  patent,  and  to  be  sold  at  so  much  a  family  bottle, 
stamp  included.  One  recipe  only  transpires,  of  so  common-place 
and  popular  a  character,  and  so  little  requiring  inspiration  for 
its  invention — so  ludicrously  familiar  to  wide-awake  advisers, 
that  our  sides  shake  to  record  how  Miss  Martineau,  restless  and 
sleepless  for  want  of  her  abandoned  opiates,  was  ordered  ale  at 
dinner,  and  brandy  and  water  for  a  nightcap.  Oh  J.  J.  !  well 
does  thy  initial  stand  also  for  Joker  ! 

In  addition  to  these  suppressions,  one  unaccountable  omission 
has  certainly  staggered  us,  as  much  as  if  we  had  considered  it 


DOMESTIC  MESMERISM. 


157 


through  a  couple  of  bottles  of  wine,  common  with  ourselves, 
our  clever  friend  T.  L.,  and  many  other  persons — who  all  hear 
the  music  of  the  spheres,  dumb  bells,  and  other  mute  melodies 
as  distinctly  as  the  rest  of  the  world,  but  of  gross  mundane  sounds 
and  noises  are  unconscious  as  the  adder — Miss  Martineau  is  very 
deaf  indeed.  Here  then  was  an  obvious  subject  for  experiment, 
and  having  been  so  easily  cured  of  one  infirmity  it  seems  only 
natural  that  it  should  have  occurred  to  the  patient  to  apply 
instanter  to  the  same  agency  for  relief  from  another  disability — 
that  she  should  have  requested  her  mesmerizer  to  quicken  her 
hearing  as  well  as  her  pace.  But  on  the  contrary,  her  ears 
seem  quite  to  have  slipped  out  of  her  head ;  and  at  an  advanced 
stage  of  the  proceedings  we  find  her  awaiting  J.'s  revelations, 
"  with  an  American  friend  repeating  to  her  on  the  instant,  on 
account  of  her  deafness,  every  word  as  it  fell."  And  to  make 
the  omission  more  glaring,  it  is  in  the  midst  of  speculations  on  the 
mesmeric  sharpening  of  another  sense,  till  it  can  see  through 
deal-boards,  millstones,  and  "  barricadoes  as  lustrous  as  ebony," 
that  she  neglects  to  ascertain  whether  her  hearing  might  not  be 
so  improved  as  to  perceive  sounds  through  no  denser  medium 
than  the  common  air !  Such  an  interesting  experiment  in  her 
own  person  ought  surely  to  have  preceded  the  trials  whether  "  J." 
could  see,  and  draw  ships  and  churches  with  her  eyes  shut ;  and 
the  still  more  remote  inquiry  whether  at  the  day  of  judgment  we 
are  to  rise  with  or  without  our  bodies;  including  the  auricular 
organs.  If  dull  people  can  be  cured  of  stone  deafness  by  a  few 
magnetic  passes,  so  pleasant  a  fact  ought  not  to  be  concealed ; 
whatever  the  consequence  to  the  proprietors  of  registered  Voice 
Conductors  and  Cornets. 

Along  with  the  experiment,  we  should  have  been  glad  of  more 
circumstantial  references  to  many  successful  ones  merely  assumed 
and  asserted.  There  is,  indeed,  nothing  throughout  the  Letters 
more  singular  than  the  complacency  with  which  we  are  expected 
to  take  disputed  matters  for  granted  ;  as  if  all  her  readers  were 
in  magnetic  rapport  with  the  authoress,  thinking  as  she  thinks, 
seeing  as  she  sees,  and  believing  as  she  believes.  Thus  the 
theory,  that  the  mind  of  the  somnambulist  mirrors  that  of  the 
mesmerizer,  is  declared  pretty  clearly  proved,  "  when  an  igno- 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


rant  child,  ignorant  especially  of  the  Bible,  discourses  of  the 
Scriptures  and  divinity  with  a  clergyman,  and  of  the  nebulae 
with  an  astronomer;"  a  when  perfectly  satisfactory  to  the 
writer,  but  which  sticks  in  our  throat  like  its  namesake  for 
goitre.  We  should  be  delighted  to  know  the  whereabouts  of  that 
Wonderful  Child,  and  its  caravan.   And  here  are  more  whens  : — 

What  becomes  of  really  divine  inspiration  when  the  commonest  people 
find  they  can  elicit  marvels  of  prevision  and  insight  ?  What  becomes  of  the 
veneration  for  religious  contemplation  when  ecstacies  are  found  to  be  at  the 
command  of  very  unhallowed— wholly  unauthorized  hands  ?  What  becomes 
of  the  respect  in  which  the  medical  profession  onght  to  be  held,  when  the 
friends  of  the  sick  and  suffering,  with  their  feelings  all  alive,  see  the  doc- 
tor's skill  and  science  overborne  and  set  aside  by  means  at  the  command  of 
an  ignorant  neighbor — means  which  are  all  ease  and  pleasantness  ?  How 
can  the  profession  hold  its  dominion  over  minds,  however  backed  by  law  and 
the  opinion  of  the  educated,  when  the  vulgar  see  and  know  thai  limbs  are 
removed  without  pain,  in  opposition  to  the  will  of  doctors,  and  in  spite  of 
their  denial  of  the  facts  ?  What  avails  the  decision  of  a  whole  college  of 
surgeons,  that  such  a  thing  could  not  be,  when  a  whole  town  full  of  people 
know  that  it  was  ?  What  becomes  of  the  transmission  of  fluid  when  the  mes- 
merist acts,  without  concert,  on  a  patient  a  hundred  miles  off?" 

To  all  of  which  Echo  answers  "  When  ?" — whilst  another 
memorable  one  adds  "  Where  ?"  In  fact,  had  the  letters  been 
delivered  as  speeches,  the  orator  would  continually  have  been 
interrupted  with  such  cries,  and  for  "name!  name  !" 

In  the  same  style  we  are  told  that  we  need  not  quarrel  about 
the  name  to  be  given  to  a  power  "  that  can  make  the  deaf  and 
dumb  hear  and  speak  ;  disperse  dropsies,  banish  fevers,  asthmas 
and  paralysis,  absorb  tumors,  and  cause  the  severance  of  nerve, 
bone,  and  muscle  to  be  unfelt."  Certainly  not — nor  about  the 
name  to  be  bestowed  on  certain  newly-invented  magnetic  rings, 
that  have  appeared  simultaneously  with  the  Newcastle  letters, 
and  are  said  to  cure  a  great  variety  of  diseases.  We  only  object 
— as  we  should  in  passing  a  tradesman's  accounts — to  take  mere 
items  for  facts  that  are  unsupported  by  vouchers.  But  it.  is 
obvious  throughout  that  Miss  Martineau  forgets  she  is  not  ad- 
dressing magnetizers ;  instead  of  considering  herself  as  telling 
a  ghost  story  to  people  who  did  not  believe  in  apparitions,  an  1 
consequently  fortifying  her  narrative  with  all  possible  evidence, 


DOMESTIC  MESMERISM 


159 


corroborative  and  circumstantial.  This  is  evident,  from  the  trust 
ing  simplicity  with  which  she  relates  all  the  freaks  and  fancies 
of  the  somnambulist  J.,  in  spite  of  their  glaring  absurdities  and 
inconsistencies.  For  instance,  her  vocabulary  is  complained  of 
with  its  odd  and  vulgar  phrases,  so  inferior  to  the  high  tone  of 
her  ideas,  and  the  subjects  of  her  discourse :  whereas,  like  the 
child  that  talked  of  nebulae,  and  was  up  to  astronomical  techni- 
cals, she  ought  to  have  used  as  refined  language  as  her  mes- 
merizer,  the  well-educated  widow  of  a  clergyman.  So  when  a 
glass  of  proper  magnetic  water  was  willed  to  be  poiter  on  her 
palate,  she  called  it  obliquely  "a  nasty  sort  of  beer,"  when, 
reflecting  the  knowledge  of  her  mesmerizer,  she  should  have 
recognized  it  by  name  as  well  as  by  taste  ;  and  again,  in  the 
fellow  experiment,  when  the  water  was  willed  to  be  sherry,  she 
described  it  as  wine,  "  white  wine  ;"  and  moreover,  on  drinking 
half  a  tumbler,  became  so  tipsy,  that  she  was  afraid  to  rise  from 
the  chair  or  walk,  or  go  down  stairs,  "  for  fear  of  falling  and 
spoiling  her  face."  The  thing,  however,  was  not  original.  Miss 
Martineau  insinuates  that  mesmerism  is  much  older  than  Mes- 
mer  ;  and  in  reality  the  reader  will  remember  a  sham-Abram 
feast  of  the  same  kind  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  where  the  Barme- 
cide willed  ideal  mutton,  barley-broth,  and  a  fat  goose  with  sweet 
sauce — and  how  Shacabac,  to  humor  his  entertainer,  got  drunk 
on  imaginary  wine. 

The  whole  interlude,  indeed,  in  which  J.  figures,  if  not  very 
satisfactory  to  the  skeptical,  is  rather  amusing.  She  is  evidently 
an  acute,  brisk  girl  of  nineteen,  with  a  turn  for  fun — "  very  ford 
of  imitating  the  bagpipes  "  in  her  merry  moods — and  ready  to  g. 
the  whole  Magnetic  Animal,  even  to  the  "  mesmerizing  herself," 
— an  operation  as  difficult,  one  would  imagine,  as  self-tickling. 
She  exhibits,  in  fact,  a  will  of  her  own,  and  an  independence 
quite  at  variance  with  the  usual  subjection  to  a  superior  influ- 
ence. She  wakes  at  her  own  pleasure  from  her  trances — is  not 
so  abstracted  in  them,  as  to  forget  her  household  errands,  that  she 
has  to  go  to  the  shop  over  the  way — and  without  any  mesmeric 
introduction  gets  into  rapport  with  the  music  next  door,  which 
sets  her  mocking  all  the  instruments  of  an  orchestra,  dancing, 
and  describing  the  company  in  a  ball-room.  Another  day,  when 


160 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


one  of  the  phrenological  organs  was  affected,  she  was  thrown 
into  a  paroxysm  of  order,  and  was  "almost  in  a  frenzy  of  trou- 
ble because  she  could  not  make  two  pocket-handkerchiefs  lie  flat 
and  measure  the  same  size" — all  very  good  fun,  and  better  than 
stitching  or  darning.  But  she  preferred  higher  game.  "I  like 
to  look  up  and  see  spiritual  things.  I  can  see  diseases,  and  I  like 
to  see  visions !"  And  accordingly  she  did  see  a  vision — by  what 
must  be  called  clairvoyance's  long  range — of  a  shipwreck,  with 
all  its  details,  between  Gottenburg  and  Elsinore. 

This  "  inexplicable  anecdote"  Miss  Martineau  gives  with  the 
usual  amiable  reliance  on  the  reader's  implicit  credence,  declar- 
ing that  she  cannot  discover  any  chink  by  which  deception  could 
creep  in ;  whereas  there  is  a  gaping  gap  as  practicable  as  any 
breach  ever  made  by  battery.  To  give  any  weight  whatever  to 
such  a  tale,  two  conditions  are  absolutely  essential  ;  that  the 
intelligence  should  not  have  been  received  in  the  town  ;  and 
that  if  it  had,  the  girl  should  have  had  no  opportunity  of  hearing 
the  news.  And  was  this  the  case?  By  no  means.  On  the  con- 
trary, J.  had  been  out  on  an  errand,  and  immediately  on  her  return 
she  was  mesmerized,  and  related  her  vision  ;  the  news  arriving 
by  natural  means,  so  simultaueously  with  the  revelation,  that  she 
presently  observed,  "  my  aunt  is  below,  telling  them  all  about  it 
and  I  shall  hear  all  about  it  when  I  go  down."  To  be  expected 
to  look  on  a  maid  of  Newcastle  as  a  she-Ezekiel,  on  such  terms, 
really  confirms  us  in  an  opinion  we  have  gradually  been  form- 
ing, that  Miss  Martineau  never  in  her  life  looked  at  a  human 
gullet  by  the  help  of  a  table-spoon. 

In  justice,  however,  it  must  be  said,  that  the  letter-writer  gives 
credit  as  freely  as  she  requires  it ;  witness  the  vision  just  referred 
to,  which  it  is  confidently  said  was  impossible  to  be  known  by 
ordinary  means,  coupled  with  an  equally  rash  assertion,  that  the 
girl  had  not  seen  her  aunt,  "the  only  person  (in  all  Newcastle !) 
from  whom  tidings  of  the  shipwreck  could  be  obtained."  The 
truth  is,  with  a  too  easy  faith,  Miss  Martineau  greatly  underrates 
the  mischievous  propensities  and  wicked  capabilities  of  human 
nature.    She  says, 

"  I  am  certain  that  it  is  not  in  human  nature  to  keep  up  for  seven  w  eeks, 
without  slip  or  trip,  a  series  of  deceptions  so  multifarious  ;  and  I  should 


DOMESTIC  MESMERISM. 


161 


say  so  of  a  perfect  strange"  as  confidently  as  I  say  it  of  this  girl,  whom  I 
know  to  be  incapable  of  deception,  as  much  from  the  character  of  her  intel 
lect  as  of  her  morale.3 

It  is  certain,  nevertheless,  that  Mary  Tofts,  the  Rabbit- 
breeder,  Ann  Moore,  the  Fasting  Woman  of  Tutbury,  Scratch- 
ing Fanny,  and  other  impostors,  young  and  old,  exhibited  extra- 
ordinary patience  and  painful  perseverance  in  their  deceptions 
combined  with  an  art  and  cunning  that  deluded  doctors  medi- 
cal, spiritual,  and  lexicographical,  with  many  people  of  quality 
of  both  sexes.  These,  it  is  true,  were  all  superstitious  or  credu- 
lous persons,  who  believed  all  they  could  get  to  believe ;  and 
what  else  are  those  individuals  now-a-days,  who  hold  that 
mesmerism  is  as  ancient  as  the  Delphian  Oracle,  and  that  witch- 
craft was  one  of  its  forms  1  In  common  consistency  such  a  faith 
ought  to  go  all  lengths  with  the  American  sea-serpent,  the  whole 
breadth  of  the  Kraken,  and  not  believe  by  halves  in  the  merman 
and  mermaid. 

In  one  thing  we  cordially  agree  with  Miss  Martineau,  namely, 
in  repudiating  the  cant  about  prying  into  the  mysteries  of  Provi- 
dence, perfectly  convinced  that  what  is  intended  to  be  hidden 
from  us  will  remain  as  hermetically  sealed  as  the  secrets  of  the 
grave.  The  Creator  himself  has  implanted  in  man  an  inquisitive 
spirit,  with  faculties  for  research,  which  he  obviously  intended 
to  be  exercised,  by  leaving  for  its  discovery  so  many  important 
powers — for  instance,  the  properties  of  the  loadstone — essential 
to  human  comfort  and  progress,  instead  of  making  them  subjects 
of  special  revelation.  Let  man,  then,  divinely  supplied  v/ith 
intellectual  deep  sea-lines,  industriously  fathom  all  mysteries 
within  their  reach.  What  we  object  to  is,  that  so  many  charts 
are  empirically  laid  down  without  his  taking  proper  soundings, 
and  to  his  pronouncing  off-hand,  without  examination  by  the 
plummet,  that  the  bottom  off  a  strange  coast  is  rock,  mud,  stone, 
sand,  or  shells.  Thus  it  is  that  in  mesmerism  we  have  so  much 
rash  assertion  on  one  hand,  and  point  blank  contradiction  on  the 
other.  To  pass  over  such  subtleties  as  the  existence  of  an  in- 
visible magnetic  fluid,  and  the  mode  of  magnetic  action,  there  is 
the  broad  problem,  whether  a  man'^  leg  can  be  lopped  off  as 
unconsciously  as  the  limb  of  a  tree !    That  such  a  question 

Part  n.  12 


162 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


should  remain  in  dispute  or  doubt,  in  spite  of  our  numerous  hos- 
pitals and  their  frequent  operations,  is  disgraceful  to  all  parties. 
But  speculation  seems  to  be  preferred  to  proof.  Thus  Miss 
Martineau  talks  confidently  of  such  painless  amputations  ;  yet, 
with  a  somnambulist  at  her  fingers'  ends,  never  assures  herself 
by  the  prick  of  a  pin  of  the  probability  of  the  fact.  Nay,  she  is 
very  angry  with  an  experimentalist,  who  tried  to  satisfy  himself 
of  the  reality  of  J.'s  insensibility  by  a  sudden  alarm,  without 
giving  notice  that  he  was  going  to  surprise  her  ;  a  violation,  it 
seems,  of  the  first  rule  of  mesmeric  practice,  but  certainly 
according  to  the  rules  of  common  sense. 

"  Another  incident  is  noteworthy  in  this  connexion.  A  gentleman  was 
here  one  evening,  who  was  invited  in  all  good  faith  on  his  declaration  that 
he  had  read  all  that  had  been  written  on  mesmerism,  knew  all  about  it,  and 
was  philosophically  curious  to  witness  the  phenomena.  He  is  the  only  wit- 
ness we  have  had  who  abused  the  privilege.  I  was  rather  surprised  to  see 
how,  being  put  in  communication  with  J.,  he  wrenched  her  arm,  and  em- 
ployed usage  which  would  have  been  cruelly  rough  in  her  ordinary  state : 
but  I  suppose  it  was  because  he  '  knew  all  about  it,'  and  found  that  she  was 
insensible  to  his  rudeness  ;  and  her  insensibility  was  so  obvious,  that  I 
hardly  regretted  it.  At  length,  however,  it  became  clear,  that  his  sole  idea 
was  (that  which  is  the  sole  idea  of  so  many  who  cannot  conceive  of  what 
they  cannot  explain)  of  detecting  shamming ;  and,  in  pursuance  of  this  aim, 
this  gentleman,  who  'knew  all  about  it,'  violated  the  first  rule  of  mesmeric 
practice,  by  suddenly  and  violently  seizing  the  sleeper's  arm,  without  the 
intervention  of  the  mesmerist.  J.  was  convulsed,  and  writhed  in  her  chair. 
At  that  moment,  and  while  supposing  himself  en  rapport  with  her,  he 
shouted  out  to  me  that  the  house  was  on  fire.  Happily,  this  brutal  assault 
on  her  nerves  failed  entirely.  There  was  certainly  nothing  congenial  in  the 
rapport.  She  made  no  attempt  to  rise  from  her  seat,  and  said  nothing — 
clearly  heard  nothing  ;  and  when  asked  what  had  frightened  her,  said  some- 
thing cold  had  got  hold  of  her.    Cold,  indeed !  and  very  hard  too  !" 

In  the  mean  time,  how  many  sufferers  there  are,  probably, 
male  and  female,  afflicted  with  cancers  and  diseased  limbs,  who 
are  looking  towards  mesmerism  for  relief,  and  anxiously  asking, 
is  it  true  that  a  breast  can  be  removed  as  painlessly  as  its  bod- 
dice  ;  or  a  leg  cut  off,  and  perhaps  put  on  again — why  not,  by 
such  a  miraculous  agency  1 — without  the  knowledge  of  its  great 
or  little  toe  ?  Such  inquirers  ought  at  once  to  have  their  doubts 
resolved,  for,  as  we  all  know,  there  is  nothing  more  cruel,  when 


DOMESTIC  MESMERISM. 


163 


such  issues  are  at  stake,  than  to  be  kept  dangling  in  a  state  of 
uncertainty. 

On  the  subject  of  itinerant  mesmerists,  Miss  Martineau  is  very- 
earnest,  and  roundly  denouncet  the  profane  fellows,  who  make 
no  scruple  of  "playing  upon  the  nerves  and  brains  of  human 
beings,  exhibiting  for  money  on  a  stage,  states  of  mind  and  soul 
held  too  sacred  in  olden  times  to  be  elicited  elsewhere  than  in 
temples  by  the  hands  of  the  priests  of  the  gods !  1 

While  the  wise,  in  whose  hands  this  power  should  be,  as  the  priest- 
hcod  to  whom  scientific  mysteries  are  consigned  by  Providence,  scornfully 
decline  their  high  function,  who  are  they  that  snatch  at  it,  in  sport  or  mis- 
chief— and  always  in  ignorance  ?  School-children,  apprentices,  thoughtless 
women  who  mean  no  harm,  aud  base  men  who  do  mean  harm.  Wherever 
itinerant  mesmerists  have  been,  are  there  such  as  these,  throwing  each 
other  into  trances,  trying  funny  experiments,  getting  fortunes  told,  or  rashly 
treating  diseases. 

*  *  •  *  * 

"  Thus  are  human  passions  and  human  destinies  committed  to  reckless 
hands  for  sport  or  abuse.  No  wonder  if  somnambules  are  made  into  for- 
tune tellers — no  wonder  if  they  are  made  into  prophets  of  fear,  malice,  and 
revenge,  by  reflecting  in  their  somnambulism  the  fear,  malice,  and  revenge 
of  their  questioners  ; — no  wonder  if  they  are  made  even  ministers  of  death, 
by  being  led  from  sick-bed  to  sick-bed  in  the  dim  and  dreary  alleys  of  our 
towns,  to  declare  which  of  the  sick  will  recover,  and  which  will  die ! 
***** 

"  If  I  were  to  speak  as  a  moralist  on  the  responsibility  of  the  savans  of 
society  to  the  multitude — if  I  were  to  unveil  the  scenes  which  are  going  for- 
ward in  every  town  in  England,  from  the  wanton,  sportive,  curious,  or 
mischievous  use  of  this  awful  agency  by  the  ignorant,  we  should  hear  no 
more  levity  in  high  places  about  mesmerism." 

A  statement  strangely  at  variance  with  the  following  dictum, 
which  as  strangely  makes  Morality  still  moral,  whatever  her 
,'houghts  or  her  postures — and  whether  controlled  by  the  volition 
■>f  "  thoughtless  women  who  mean  no  harm,"  or  "  base  men  who 
do  mean  harm." 

"  The  volitions  of  the  mesmerist  may  actuate  the  movements  of  the 
patient's  limbs,  and  suggest  the  material  of  his  ideas ;  but  they  6eem  unable 
to  touch  his  morale.  In  this  state  the  morale  appears  supreme,  as  it  is 
rarely  found  in  the  ordinary  condition." 


J  64 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


We  can  well  understand  the  "  social  calamity  "  apprehended 
from  a  promiscuous  use  of  the  ulterior  powers  of  mesmerism. 
But  what  class,  we  must  ask,  is  to  arrogate  to  itself  and  monopo- 
lize the  exercise  of  miraculous  powers,  allied  to,  if  not  identical 
with,  those  bestowed  aforetime  on  certain  itinerant  apostles? 
An  inspired  fisherman  will  prescribe  as  safety,  prophesy  as  cor- 
rectly,  and  see  visions  as  clearly,  as  an  inspired  doctor  of  medi- 
cine or  divinity.  There  seems  to  be,  in  the  dispensation  of  the 
marvellous  gift,  no  distinction  of  persons.  Miss  Martineau's 
maid  mesmerizes  her  as  effectually  as  Mr.  Hall  ;  and  J.  owes 
her  first  magnetic  sleep,  and  all  its  beneficial  results  on  her 
health  and  inflamed  eyes,  to  the  passes  of  the  maid  of  the  clergy- 
man's widow.  A  domestic  concatenation  that  suggests  to  us  a 
curious  kitchen  picture — and  an  illustrative  letter, 

To  Mary  Smash,  at  No.  1  Chaney  Walk,  Chelsea. 
Dear  Mary, 

This  cums  hoping  yure  well,  and  to  advize  you  to  larn  Mis- 
merising.  Its  done  with  yure  Hands,  and  is  as  easy  as  taking 
sites  at  Pepel,  or  talking  on  yure  fingers.  If  I  was  nigh  you, 
I'd  larn  you  in  no  time  to  make  Passes,  witch  is  only  pawing, 
like,  without  touchin,  at  sumboddys  face  or  back,  which  gives 
them  a  tittevating  feeling  on  the  galvanic  nerves,  And  then  off 
they  go  into  a  Trance  in  a  giffy,  and  talk  in  their  sleep  like 
Orators,  I  should  say  Oracles,  and  anser  whatever  you  ax. 
Whereby  you  may  get  your  Fortin  told,  and  find  out  other  folkes 
sweatharts  &  luve  secrets,  And  diskiver  Theaves  better  than  by 
Bible  and  Key,  And  have  yure  inward  Disorders  told,  &  wats 
good  for  them.  Sukey's  was  the  indigestibles,  and  to  take  as 
much  rubbub  as  would  hide  a  shillin.  All  which  is  done  by 
means  of  the  sombulist,  thats  the  sleeper,  seeing  through  every 
think  quite  transparent,  in  their  Trance,  as  is  called  Clare  Voy- 
ing,  so  that  they  can  pint  out  munny  hid  under  the  Erth  &  hur- 
ried bones,  &  springs  of  water,  and  vanes  of  mettle,  &  menny 
things  besides. 

Yesterday  I  was  mismerized  meself  into  a  Trance,  &  clare 
voyed  the  chork  Gout  in  John's  stomack  as  plane  as  Margit  Clifts. 
So  I  prescribed  him  to  take  Collyflower,  witch  by  rites  should 


DOMESTIC  MESMERISM. 


165 


have  been  Collycinth,  but  I  forgot  the  proper  word.  Howsum- 
ever,  he  did  eat  two  large  ones,  and  promises  to  cum  round. 

It  would  make  you  split  your  sides  with  laffing  to  see  me  mis- 
merize  our  Thomas,  &  make  him  go  into  all  sorts  of  odd  pos- 
tures &  anticks  &;  capers  Like  a  Dotterel,  for  whatever  I  do  he 
must  coppy  to  the  snapping  of  a  finger,  and  cant  object  to  nuth- 
ing,  for,  as  the  song  says,  I've  got  his  Will  and  his  Power.  Like- 
wise you  can  make  the  Sombulist  taste  watever  you  think  prop- 
per,  so  I  give  him  mesmerized  Warter,  witch  at  my  Command  is 
transmoggrifiedon  his  pallet  to  Shampain,  &  makes  him  as  drunk 
as  Old  Gooseberry,  and  then  he  will  jump  Jim  Crow,  or  go  down 
on  his  bended  knees  and  confess  all  his  peckaddillos,  Witch  is  as 
diverten  as  reading  the  Misteries  of  Parris. 

The  wust  to  mesmerize  is  Reuben  the  Cotchman,  not  that  he  s 
too  wakeful,  for  he's  generally  beery,  And  goes  off  like  a  shot, 
but  he  wont  talk  in  his  sleep,  only  snores. 

The  Page  is  more  passable  and  very  clarevoying.  He  have 
twice  seed  a  pot  of  goold  in  the  middle  flower-bed.  But  the  gar- 
dner  wont  have  it  dug  up.  And  he  says  there  is  a  skelliton 
bricked  into  the  staircase  wall,  so  that  we  never  dares  at  nite  to 
go  up  alone.  Also  he  sees  Visions,  and  can  profesy  and  have 
foretold  two  Earthquacks  and  a  great  Pleg. 

Cook  wants  to  mismerize  too,  but  wat  with  her  being  so  much 
at  the  fire,  and  her  full  habbit,  she  always  goes  off  to  sleep  afore 
the  Sombulist.  But  Sukey  can  do  it  very  well.  Tho  in  great  dis- 
tress about  Mrs.  Hardin's  babby  witch  Sukey  offered  to  mismer- 
ize in  lieu  of  syrrup  of  Poppies  or  Godfrey's  Cordial,  but  the 
pore  Innocent  wont  wake  up  agin,  nor  havent  for  two  hole  days. 
As  would  be  a  real  blessin  to  Muthers  and  Nusses  in  a  moderate 
way,  but  mite  be  carried  too  far,  and  require  a  Crowners  Quest. 
As  yet  that's  the  only  Trial  we  have  made  out  of  the  House,  But 
we  mean  to  mismerize  the  Baker,  and  get  out  of  him  who  he 
really  does  mean  to  offer  to,  for  he  is  quite  a  General  Lover. 

Sum  pepel  is  very  dubious  about  Mismerizing,  and  some  wont 
have  it  at  any  price  ;  but  Missis  is  for  it,  very  strong,  and  says 
she  means  to  belive  every  attorn  about  it  till  sumboddy  proves 
quite  the  reverse.  She  practises  making  passes  every  day,  and 
is  studyin  Frenology  besides,  for  she  says,  between  the  two  you 


166 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


may  play  on  pepePs  pennycraniums  like  a  Piany,  and  put  them 
into  any  Key  you  like.  And  of  course  her  fust  performance 
will  be  a  Master-piece  on  the  Head  of  the  Fammily. 

To  be  shure  it  seems  a  wonderful  power  to  be  give  to  one  over 
ones  Fellow  Creturs,  and  as  mite  be  turned  to  Divilish  purposes, 
But  witch  I  cant  stop  to  pint  out,  for  makin  the  beds.  To  tell 
the  truth,  with  so  much  Mismerizing  going  on,  our  Wurks  has 
got  terrible  behind  hand.  And  the  carpits  has  not  been  swep  for 
a  we'ik.    So  no  more  at  present  in  haste  from 

Your  luving  Friend, 

Eliza  Passmore. 

P.  S.  A  most  remarkable  Profesy  !  The  Page  have  foretold 
that  the  Monkey  some  day  would  bite  Missis,  &  lo  !  and  behold 
he  have  flone  at  her,  and  made  his  teeth  meet  in  her  left  ear.  If 
that  ant  profesying  I  don't  know  what  is. 


THE  ELM  TREE. 


THE  ELM  TREE: 

A    DREAM    IN    THE  WOODS. 

And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt 
Finds  tongues  in  trees. 

As  YOU  LIKE  IT 

Twas  in  a  shady  Avenue, 
Where  lofty  Elms  abound — 
And  from  a  Tree 
There  came  to  me 
A  sad  and  solemn  sound, 
That  sometimes  murmur'd  overhead, 
And  sometimes  underground. 

Amongst  the  leaves  it  seem'd  to  sigh, 
Amid  the  boughs  to  moan  ; 

It  mutter'd  in  the  stem  and  then 
The  roots  took  up  the  tone ; 

As  if  beneath  the  dewy  grass 
The  Dead  began  to  groan. 

No  breeze  there  was  to  stir  the  leaves 
No  bolts  that  tempests  launch, 

To  rend  the  trunk  or  rugged  bark  ; 
No  gale  to  bend  the  branch ; 

No  quake  of  earth  to  heave  the  roots, 
That  stood  so  stiff  and  staunch. 

No  bird  was  preening  up  aloft, 

To  rustle  with  its  wing ; 
No  squirrel,  in  its  sport  or  fear, 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


From  bough  to  bough  to  spring  j 

The  solid  bole 

Had  ne'er  a  hole 
To  hide  a  living  thing  ! 

No  scooping  hollow  cell  to  lodge 
A  furtive  beast  or  fowl, 
The  martin,  bat, 
Or  forest  cat 
That  nightly  loves  to  prowl, 
Nor  ivy  nook  so  apt  to  shroud 
The  moping,  snoring  owl. 

But  still  the  sound  was  in  my  ear, 

A  sad  and  solemn  sound, 
That  sometimes  murmur'd  overhead, 

And  sometimes  underground — 
'Twas  in  a  shady  Avenue 

Where  lofty  Elms  abound. 

O  hath  the  Dryad  still  a  tongue 

In  this  ungenial  clime  ? 
Have  Sylvan  Spirits  still  a  voice 

As  in  the  classic  prime — 
To  make  the  forest  voluble, 

As  in  the  olden  time  ? 

The  olden  time  is  dead  and  gone ; 

Its  years  have  fill'd  their  sum — 
And  e'en  in  Greece — her  native  Greece- 

The  Sylvan  Nymph  is  dumb — 
From  ash,  and  beech,  and  aged  oak, 

No  classic  whispers  come. 

From  Poplar,  Pine,  and  drooping  Birch, 
And  fragrant  Linden  Trees  ; 

No  living  sound 

E'er  hovers  round, 
Unless  the  vagrant  breeze,  ^ 


THE  ELM  TREE. 


The  music  of  the  merry  bird, 
Or  hum  of  busy  bees. 

But  busy  bees  forsake  the  Elm 
That  bears  no  bloom  aloft — 

The  Finch  was  in  the  hawthorn-bush, 
The  Blackbird  in  the  croft ; 

And  among  the  firs  the  brooding  Dove, 
That  else  might  murmur  soft. 

Yet  still  I  heard  that  solemn  sound, 

And  sad  it  was  to  boot, 
From  ev'ry  overhanging  bough, 

And  each  minuter  shoot ; 
From  the  rugged  trunk  and  mossy  rind., 

And  from  the  twisted  root. 

From  these, — a  melancholy  moan  ; 

From  those, — a  dreary  sigh  ; 
As  if  the  boughs  were  wintry  bare, 

And  wild  winds  sweeping  by — 
Whereas  the  smallest  fleecy  cloud 

Was  steadfast  in  the  sky. 

No  sign  or  touch  of  stirring  air 
Could  either  sense  observe — 

The  zephyr  had  not  breath  enough 
The  thistle-down  to  swerve, 

Or  force  the  filmy  gossamers 
To  take  another  curve. 

In  still  and  silent  slumber  hush'd 

All  Nature  seem'd  to  be  ; 
From  heaven  above,  or  earth  beneath, 

No  whisper  came  to  me — 
Except  the  solemn  sound  and  sad 

From  that  Mysterious  Tree  I 

A  hollow,  hollow,  hollow  sound, 
As  is  that  dreamy  roar 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


When  distant  billows  boil  and  bound 

Along  a  shingly  shore — 
But  the  ocean  brim  was  far  aloof, 

A  hundred  miles  or  more. 

No  murmur  of  the  gusty  sea, 

No  tumult  of  the  beach, 
However  they  might  foam  and  fret, 

The  bounded  sense  could  reach — 
Methought  the  trees  in  mystic  tongue 

Were  talking  each  to  each  ! — 

Mayhap,  rehearsing  ancient  tales 
Of  greenwood  love  or  guilt, 
Of  whisper'd  vows 
Beneath  their  boughs ; 
Or  blood  obscurely  spilt ; 
Or  of  that  near-hand  Mansion  House 
A  Royal  Tudor  built. 

Perchance,  of  booty  won  or  shared 

Beneath  the  starry  cope — 
Or  where  the  suicidal  wretch 

Hung  up  the  fatal  rope ; 
Or  Beauty  kept  an  evil  tryste, 

Insnared  by  Love  and  Hope. 

Of  graves,  perchance,  untimely  scoop'd 

At  midnight  dark  and  dank — 
And  what  is  underneath  the  sod 
Whereon  the  grass  is  rank — 
Of  old  intrigues, 
And  privy  leagues, 
Tradition  leaves  in  blank. 

Of  traitor  lips  that  mutter'd  plots — 
Of  Kin  who  fought  and  fell — 

God  knows  the  undiscovered  schemes, 
The  arts  and  act?  ->f  Hell, 


THE  ELM  TREE. 


171 


Perform'd  long  generations  since. 
If  trees  had  tongues  to  tell ! 

With  wary  eyes,  and  ears  alert, 

As  one  who  walks  afraid, 
I  wander'd  down  the  dappled  path 

Of  mingled  light  and  shade — 
How  sweetly  gleamed  that  arch  of  blue 

Beyond  the  green  arcade  ! 

How  clearly  shone  the  glimpse  of  Heav'n 

Beyond  that  verdant  aisle  ! 
A.11  overarch'd  with  lofty  elms, 
That  quench'd  the  light  the  while, 
As  dim  and  chill 
As  serves  to  fill 
Some  old  Cathedral  pile  ! 

And  many  a  gnarled  trunk  was  there, 

That  ages  long  had  stood, 
Till  Time  had  wrought  them  into  shapes 

Like  Pan's  fantastic  brood  ; 
Or  still  more  foul  and  hideous  forms 

That  Pagans  carve  in  wood  ! 

A  crouching  Satyr  lurking  here — 

And  there  a  Goblin  grim — 
As  staring  full  of  demon  life 

As  Gothic  sculptor's  whim — 
A  marvel  it  had  scarcely  been 

To  hear  a  voice  from  him ! 

Some  whisper  from  that  horrid  mouth 

Of  strange,  unearthly  tone  ; 
Or  wild  infernal  laugh,  to  chill 

One's  marrow  in  the  bone. 
But  no  it  grins  like  rigid  Death, 

And  silent  as  a  stone  ! 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


As  silent  as  its  fellows  oe, 

For  all  is  mute  with  them — 
The  branch  that  climbs  the  leafy  roof — 
The  rough  and  mossy  stem — 
The  crooked  root, 
And  tender  shoot, 
Where  hangs  the  dewy  gem. 

One  mystic  Tree  alone  there  is, 

Of  sad  and  solemn  sound — 
That  sometimes  murmurs  overhead, 

And  sometimes  underground — 
In  all  that  shady  Avenue, 

Where  lofty  Elms  abound. 

Part  II. 

The  Scene  is  changed  !    No  green  Arcade — 

No  Trees  all  ranged  a-row — 
But  scattered  like  a  beaten  host, 

Dispersing  to  and  fro ; 
With  here  and  there  a  sylvan  corse, 

That  fell  before  the  foe. 

The  Foe  that  down  in  yonder  dell 

Pursues  his  daily  toil ; 
As  witness  many  a  prostrate  trunk, 

Bereft  of  leafy  spoil, 
Hard  by  its  wooden  stump,  whereon 

The  adder  loves  to  coil. 

Alone  he  works — his  ringing  blows 

Have  banish'd  bird  and  beast ; 
The  Hind  and  Fawn  have  canter'd  oft 

A  hundred  yards  at  least ; 
And  on  the  maple's  lofty  top, 

The  linnet's  song  has  ceased. 


THE  ELM  TREE. 


No  eye  his  labor  overlooks, 

Or  when  he  takes  his  rest ; 
Except  the  timid  thrush  that  peeps 

Above  her  secret  nest, 
Forbid  by  love  to  leave  the  young 

Beneath  her  speckled  breast. 

The  Woodman's  heart  is  in  his  work, 

His  axe  is  sharp  and  good  : 
With  sturdy  arm  and  steady  aim 
He  smites  the  gaping  wood  ; 
From  distant  rocks 
His  lusty  knocks 
Re-echo  many  a  rood. 

His  axe  is  keen,  his  arm  is  strong ; 

The  muscles  serve  him  well ; 
His  years  have  reached  an  extra  span, 

The  number  none  can  tell ; 
But  still  his  lifelong  task  has  been 

The  Timber  Tree  to  fell. 

Through  Summer's  parching  sultriness, 
And  Winter's  freezing  cold, 
From  sapling  youth 
To  virile  growth, 
And  Age's  rigid  mould, 
His  energetic  axe  hath  rung 
Within  that  Forest  old. 

Aloft,  upon  his  poising  steel 
The  vivid  sunbeams  glance — 

About  his  head  and  round  his  feet 
The  forest  shadows  dance ; 

And  bounding  from  his  russet  coat 
The  acorn  drops  askance. 

His  face  is  like  a  Druid's  face, 
With  wrinkles  furrow'd  deep, 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


And  tann'd  by  scorching  suns  as  brown 

As  corn  that's  ripe  to  reap ; 
But  the  hair  on  brow,  on  cheek,  and  chin, 

Is  white  as  wool  of  sheep. 

His  frame  is  like  a  giant's  frame ; 

His  legs  are  long  and  stark  ; 
His  arms  like  limbs  of  knotted  yew  ; 
His  hands  like  rugged  bark. 
So  he  felleth  still 
With  right  good  will, 
As  if  to  build  an  Ark ! 

Oh !  well  within  His  fatal  path 

The  fearful  Tree  might  quake 
Through  every  fibre,  twig,  and  leaf, 
With  aspen  tremor  shake  ; 

Through  trunk  and  root, 
And  branch  and  shoot, 
A  low  complaining  make  ! 

Oh  !  well  to  Him  the  Tree  might  breathe 

A  sad  and  solemn  sound, 
A  sigh  that  murmur'd  overhead, 

And  groans  from  underground  ; 
As  in  that  shady  Avenue 

Where  lofty  Elms  abound ! 

But  calm  and  mute  the  Maple  stands, 

The  Plane,  the  Ash,  the  Fir, 
The  Elm,  the  Beech,  the  drooping  Birch 

Without  the  least  demur; 
And  e'en  the  Aspen's  hoary  leaf 

Makes  no  unusual  stir. 

The  Pines — those  old  gigantic  Pines, 

That  writhe — recalling  soon 
The  famous  Human  Group  that  writhes 


THE  ELM  TREE. 


With  Snakes  in  wild  festoon — 
In  ramous  wrestlings  interlaced 
A  Forest  Laocoon — 

Like  Titans  of  primeval  girth 

By  tortures  overcome, 
Their  brown  enormous  limbs  they  twine 

Bedew'd  with  tears  of  gum — ■ 
Fierce  agonies  that  ought  to  yell, 

But,  like  the  marble,  dumb. 

Nay,  yonder  blasted  Elm  that  stands 

So  like  a  man  of  sin, 
Who,  frantic,  flings  his  arms  abroad 

To  feel  the  Worm  within — 
For  all  that  gesture,  so  intense, 

It  makes  no  sort  of  din  ! 

An  universal  silence  reigns 

In  rugged  bark  or  peel, 
Except  that  very  trunk  which  rings 

Beneath  the  biting  steel — 
Meanwhile  the  Woodman  plies  his  axe 

With  unrelenting  zeal ! 

* 

No  rustic  song  is  on  his  tongue, 

No  whistle  on  his  lips ; 
But  with  a  quiet  thoughtfulness 

His  trusty  tool  he  grips, 
And,  stroke  on  stroke,  keeps  hacking  out 

The  bright  and  flying  chips. 

Stroke  after  stroke,  with  frequent  dint 

He  spreads  the  fatal  gash  ; 
Till  lo !  the  remnant  fibres  rend, 

With  harsh  and  sudden  crash, 
And  on  the  dull  resounding  turf 

The  jarring  branches  lash  ! 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Oh  !  now  the  Forest  Trees  may  sigh, 

The  Ash,  the  Poplar  tall, 
The  Elm,  the  Birch,  the  drooping  Beech, 
The  Aspens — one  and  all, 
With  solemn  groan 
And  hollow  moan 
Lament  a  comrade's  fall'! 

A  goodly  Elm,  of  noble  girth, 
That,  thrice  the  human  span — 

While  on  their  variegated  course 
The  constant  Seasons  ran — 

Through  gale,  and  hail,  and  fiery  bolt, 
Had  stood  erect  as  Man. 

But  now,  like  mortal  Man  himself, 
Struck  down  by  hand  of  God, 

Or  heathen  Idol  tumbled  prone 
Beneath  th'  Eternal's  nod, 

In  all  its  giant  bulk  and  length 
It  lies  along  the  sod ! — 

Ay,  now  the  Forest  Trees  may  grieve 

And  make  a  common  moan 
Around  that  patriarchal  trunk 

So  newly  overthrown  ; 
And  with  a  murmur  recognize 

A  doom  to  be  their  own  ! 

The  Echo  sleeps :  the  idle  axe, 

A  disregarded  tool, 
Lies  crushing  with  its  passive  weight 

The  toad's  reputed  stool — 
The  Woodman  wipes  his  dewy  brow 

Within  the  shadows  cool. 

No  Zephyr  stirs  :  the  ear  may  catch 

The  smallest  insect-hum ; 
But  on  the  disappointed  sense 


THE  ELM  TREE. 


No  mystic  whispers  come  ; 
No  tone  of  sylvan  sympathy, 
The  Forest  Trees  are  dumb. 

No  leafy  noise,  nor  inward  voice, 

No  sad  and  solemn  sound, 
That  sometimes  murmurs  overhead, 

And  sometimes  underground  ; 
As  in  that  shady  Avenue, 

Where  lofty  Elms  abound  ' 

Part  III. 

The  deed  is  done  :  the  Tree  is  low 
That  stood  so  long  and  firm ; 

The  Woodman  and  his  axe  are  gone, 
His  toil  has  found  its  term ; 

And  where  he  wrought  the  speckled  Thrush 
Securely  hunts  the  worm. 

The  Cony  from  the  sandy  bank 

Has  run  a  rapid  race, 
Through  thistle,  bent,  and  tangled  fern, 

To  seek  the  open  space ; 
And  on  its  haunches  sits  erect 

To  clean  its  furry  face. 

The  dappled  Fawn  is  close  at  hand, 

The  Hind  is  browsing  near, — 
And  on  the  Larch's  lowest  bough 
The  Ousel  whistles  clear ; 
But  checks  the  note 
Within  his  throat, 
As  choked  with  sudden  fear ! 

With  sudden  fear  her  wormy  quest 

The  Thrush  abruptly  quits — 
Through  thistle,  bent,  and  tangled  fern 
Part  ii.  13 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 

The  startled  Cony  flits  ; 
And  on  the  Larch's  lowest  bough 
No  more  the  Ousel  sits. 

With  sudden  fear 
The  dappled  Deer 
Effect  a  swift  escape  ; 
But  well  might  bolder  creatures  start, 

And  fly,  or  stand  agape, 
With  rising  hair,  and  curdled  blood, 
To  see  so  grim  a  Shape  ! 

The  very  sky  turns  pale  above ; 

The  earth  grows  dark  beneath ; 
The  human  Terror  thrills  with  cold, 

And  draws  a  shorter  breath — 
An  universal  panic  owns 

The  dread  approach  of  DEATH » 

With  silent  pace,  as  shadows  come, 

And  dark  as  shadows  be, 
The  grisly  Phantom  takes  his  stand 

Beside  the  fallen  Tree, 
And  scans  it  with  his  gloomy  eyes, 

And  laughs  with  horrid  glee — 

A  dreary  laugh  and  desolate, 
Where  mirth  is  void  and  null, 

As  hollow  as  its  echo  sounds 
Within  the  hollow  skull — 
"  Whoever  laid  this  tree  along 
His  hatchet  was  not  dull ! 

"  The  human  arm  and  human  tool 
Have  done  their  duty  well ! 
But  after  sound  of  ringing  axe 
Must  sound  the  ringing  knell ; 
When  Elm  or  Oak 
Have  felt  the  stroke 
My  turn  it  is  to  fell ! 


THE  ELM  TREE. 


'  No  passive  unregarded  tree, 
A  senseless  thing  of  wood, 
Wherein  the  sluggish  sap  ascends 

To  swell  the  vernal  bud — 
But  conscious,  moving,  breathing  trunks 
That  throb  with  living  blood  ! 

No  forest  Monarch  yearly  clad 

In  mantle  green  or  brown ; 
That  unrecorded  lives,  and  falls 

By  hand  of  rustic  clown — 
But  Kings  who  don  the  purple  robe, 

And  wear  the  jewell'd  crown. 

Ah !  little  recks  the  Royal  mind, 

Within  his  Banquet  Hall, 
While  tapers  shine  and  Music  breathes 

And  Beauty  leads  the  Ball, — 
He  little  recks  the  oaken  plank 

Shall  be  his  palace  wall ! 

"  Ah  !  little  dreams  the  haughty  Peer 
The  while  his  Falcon  flies — 

Or  on  the  blood-bedabbled  turf 
The  antler'd  quarry  dies — 

That  in  his  own  ancestral  Park 
The  narrow  dwelling  lies ! 

But  haughty  Peer  and  mighty  King 
One  doom  shall  overwhelm  ! 
The  oaken  cell 
Shall  lodge  him  well 
Whose  sceptre  ruled  a  realm — 
While  he  who  never  knew  a  home, 
Shall  find  it  in  the  Elm  ! 

The  tatter'd,  lean,  dejected  wretch, 
Who  begs  from  door  to  door, 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


And  dies  within  the  cressy  ditch, 

Or  on  the  barren  moor, 
The  friendly  Elm  shall  lodge  and  clothe 

That  houseless  man,  and  poor ! 

Yea,  this  recumbent  rugged  trunk, 
That  lies  so  long  and  prone, 

With  many  a  fallen  acorn-cup, 
And  mast,  and  firry  cone — 

This  rugged  trunk  shall  hold  its  share 
Of  mortal  flesh  and  bone  ! 

"  A  Miser  hoarding  heaps  of  gold, 

But  pale  with  ague-fears — 
A  Wife  lamenting  love's  decay, 

With  secret  cruel  tears, 
Distilling  bitter,  bitter  drops 

From  sweets  of  former  years — 

"  A  Man  within  whose  gloomy  mind, 

Offence  had  darkly  sunk, 
Who  out  of  fierce  Revenge's  cup 

Hath  madly,  darkly  drunk — 
Grief,  Avarice,  and  Hate  shall  sleep 

Within  this  very  trunk  ! 

"  This  massy  trunk  that  lies  along, 
And  many  more  must  fall — 
For  the  very  knave 
Who  digs  the  grave, 
The  man  who  spreads  the  pall, 
And  he  who  tolls  the  funeral  bell, 
The  Elm  shall  have  them  all ! 

"  The  tall  abounding  Elm  that  grows 
In  hedgerows  up  and  down  ; 
In  field  and  forest,  copse  and  park, 
And  in  the  peopled  town, 


THE  ELM  TREE. 


With  colonies  of  noisy  rooks 
That  nestle  on  its  crown. 

'  And  well  th'  abounding  Elm  may  grow 

In  field  and  hedge  so  rife, 
In  forest,  copse,  and  wooded  park, 

And  'mid  the  city's  strife, 
For,  every  hour  that  passes  by, 

Shall  end  a  human  life  !" 

The  Phantom  ends  :  the  shade  is  gone  ; 

The  sky  is  clear  and  bright ; 
On  turf,  and  moss,  and  fallen  Tree, 

There-  glows  a  ruddy  light ; 
And  bounding  through  the  golden  fern 

The  Rabbit  comes  to  bite. 

The  Thrush's  mate  beside  her  sits 

And  pipes  a  merry  lay ; 
The  Dove  is  in  the  evergreens ; 

And  on  the  Larch's  spray 
The  Fly-bird  flutters  up  and  down, 

To  catch  its  tiny  prey. 

The  gentle  Hind  and  dappled  Fawn 

Are  coming  up  the  glade  ; 
Each  harmless  furr'd  and  feather'd  thing 

Is  glad,  and  not  afraid — 
But  on  my  sadden'd  spirit  still 

The  Shadow  leaves  a  shade. 

A  secret,  vague,  prophetic  gloom, 

As  though  by  certain  mark 
I  knew  the  fore-appointed  Tree, 

Within  whose  rugged  bark 
This  warm  and  living  frame  shall  find 

Its  narrow  house  and  dark. 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


That  mystic  Tree  which  breathed  to 
A  sad  and  solemn  sound, 

That  sometimes  murmur'd  overhead 
And  sometimes  underground  ; 

Within  that  shady  Avenue 
Where  lofty  Elms  abound. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LABORER. 


183 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LABORER. 


It  was  a  gloomy  evening.  The  sun  had  set,  angry  and  threat- 
ening, lighting  up  the  horizon  with  lurid  flame  and  flakes  of 
blood-red — slowly  quenched  by  slants  of  distant  rain,  dense  and 
dark  as  segments  of  the  old  deluge.  At  last  the  whole  sky  was 
black,  except  the  low-driving  grey  scud,  amidst  which  faint 
streaks  of  lightning  wandered  capriciously  towards  their  ap- 
pointed aim,  like  young  fire-fiends  playing  on  their  errands. 

"  There  will  be  a  storm  !"  whispered  nature  herself,  as  the 
crisp  fallen  leaves  of  autumn  started  up  with  a  hollow  rustle,  and 
began  dancing  a  wild  round,  with  a  whirlwind  of  dust,  like 
some  frantic  orgy  ushering  in  a  revolution. 

"  There  will  be  a  storm !"  I  echoed,  instinctively  looking 
round  for  the  nearest  shelter,  and  making  towards  it  at  my  best 
pace.  At  such  times  the  proudest  heads  will  bow  to  very  low 
lintels  ;  and  setting  dignity  against  a  ducking,  I  very  willingly 
condescended  to  stoop  into  "  The  Plough." 

It  was  a  small  hedge  alehouse,  too  humble  for  the  refinement 
of  a  separate  parlor.  One  large  tap-room  served  for  all  comers, 
gentle  or  simple,  if  gentlefolks,  except  from  stress  of  weather, 
ever  sought  such  a  place  of  entertainment.  Its  scanty  accommo- 
dations were  even  meaner  than  usual :  the  Plough  had  suffered 
from  the  hardness  of  the  times,  and  exhibited  the  bareness  of  a 
house  recently  unfurnished  by  the  broker.  The  aspect  of  the  pub- 
lic room  was  cold  and  cheerless.  There  was  a  mere  glimmer  of 
fire  in  the  grate,  and  a  single  unsnufled  candle  stood  guttering 
over  the  neck  of  the  stone  bottle  in  which  it  was  stuck,  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  plain  deal  table.  The  low  ceiling,  blackened  by  smoke, 
hung  overhead  like  a  canopy  of  gloomy  clouds  ;  the  walls  were 


184 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


stained  with  damp,  and  patches  of  the  plaster  had  peeled  off 
from  the  naked  laths.  Ornament  there  was  none,  except  a  soli 
tary  print,  gaudily  daubed  in  body-colors,  and  formerly  glazed, 
as  hinted  by  a  small  triangle  of  glass  in  one  corner  of  the  black 
frame.  The  subject,  "  the  Shipwrecked  Mariner,"  whose  corpse, 
jacketed  in  bright  sky-blue,  rolled  on  a  still  brighter  strip  of  yel- 
low shingle,  between  two  grass-green  wheat-sheaves  with  white 
ears — but  intended  for  foaming  billows.  Above  all,  the  custom- 
ary odors  were  wanting  ;  the  faint  smell  of  beer  and  ale,  the 
strong  scent  of  spirits,  the  fumes  of  tobacco ;  none  of  them 
agreeable  to  a  nice  sense,  but  decidedly  .missed  with  a  feeling 
akin  to  disappointment.  Rank  or  vapid,  they  belonged  to  the 
place,  representing,  though  in  an  infinitely  lower  key,  the  bou- 
quet of  Burgundy,  the  aroma  of  choice  liqueurs — the  breath  of 
social  enjoyment. 

Yet  there  was  no  lack  of  company.  Ten  or  twelve  men5 
some  young,  but  the  majority  of  the  middle  age,  and  one  or  two 
advanced  in  years,  were  seated  at  the  sordid  board.  As  many 
glasses  and  jugs  of  various  patterns  stood  before  them  ;  but 
mostly  empty,  as  was  the  tin  tankard  from  which  they  had  been 
replenished.  Only  a  few  of  the  party  in  the  neighborhood  of  a 
brown  earthenware  pitcher  had  full  cups  ;  but  of  the  very  small 
ale  called  Adam's.  Their  coin  and  credit  exhausted,  they  were 
keeping  up  the  forms  of  drinking  and  good  fellowship  with  plain 
water.  From  the  same  cause,  a  bundle  of  new  clay  pipes  lay 
idle  on  the  table,  unsoiled  by  the  Indian  weed. 

A  glance  sufficed  to  show  that  the  company  were  of  the  labor- 
ing class — men  with  tanned,  furrowed  faces,  and  hairy,  freckled 
hands — who  smelt  "  of  the  earth,  earthy,"  and  were  clad  in 
fustian  and  leather,  in  velveteen  and  corduroy,  glossy  with  wear 
or  wet,  soiled  by  brown  clay  and  green  moss,  scratched  and  torn 
by  brambles,  wrinkled,  warped,  and  threadbare  with  age,  and 
variously  patched — garments  for  need  and  decency,  not  show ; — 
for  if,  amidst  the  prevailing  russets,  drabs,  and  olives,  there  was 
a  gayer  scrap  of  green,  blue,  or  red,  it  was  a  tribute  not  to  van- 
ity but  expediency — some  fragment  of  military  broadcloth  or 
livery  plush.  * 

As  I  entered,  the  whole  party  turned  their  eyes  upon  me,  and 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LABORER. 


185 


having  satisfied  themselves  by  a  brief  scrutiny  that  my  face  and 
person  were  unknown  to  them,  thenceforward  took  no  more  notice 
of  me  than  their  own  shadows  on  the  wall.  I  could  have  fancied 
myself  invisible,  they  resumed  their  conversation  with  so  little 
reserve.  The  topics,  such  as  poor  men  discuss  amongst  them- 
selves : — the  dearness  of  bread,  the  shortness  of  work,  the  long 
hours  of  labor,  the  lowness  of  wages,  the  badness  of  the  weather, 
the  sickliness  of  the  season,  the  signs  of  a  hard  winter,  the  gene- 
ral evils  of  want,  poverty,  and  disease ;  but  accompanied  by 
such  particular  revelations,  such  minute  details,  and  frank  dis- 
closures, as  should  only  have  come  from  persons  talking  in  their 
sleep !  The  vulgar  indelicacy,  methought,  with  which  they 
gossipped  before  me  of  family  matters — the  brutal  callousness 
with  which  they  exposed  their  private  affairs,  the  whole  history 
and  mystery  of  bed,  board,  and  hearth,  the  secrets  of  home ! 
But  a  little  more  listening  and  reflection  converted  my  disgust 
into  pity  and  concern.  Alas !  I  had  forgotten  that  the  lives  of 
certain  classes  of  our  species  have  been  laid  almost  as  bare  and 
open  as  those  of  the  beasts  of  the  field  !  The  poor  men  had  no 
domestic  secrets — no  private  affairs  !  All  were  public — matters 
of  notoriety — friend  and  foe  concurring  in  the  advertisement. 
The  law  had  ferreted  their  huts,  and  scheduled  their  three-leg- 
ged tables  and  bottomless  chairs.  Statistical  Groses  had  taken 
notes,  and  printed  them,  of  every  hole  in  their  coats.  Political 
reporters  had  calculated  their  incomings  and  outgoings  down  to 
fractions  of  pence  and  half  ounces  of  tea  ;  and  had  supplied 
the  minutise  of  their  domestic  economy  for  paragraphs  and  lead- 
ing articles.  Charity,  arm  in  arm  with  curiosity,  and  clerical 
philanthropy,  linked  perhaps  with  a  religious  inquisitor,  had 
taken  an  inventory  of  their  defects  moral  and  spiritual  ;  whilst 
medical  visitors  had  inspected  and  recorded  their  physical  sores, 
cancerous  and  scrofulous,  their  humors,  and  their  tumors. 

Society,  like  a  policeman,  had  turned  upon  them  the  full  blaze 
of  its  bull's  eye — exploring  the  shadiest  recesses  of  their  priva- 
cy, till  their  means,  food,  habits,  and  modes  of  existence  were 
as  minutely  familiar  as  those  of  the  animalculse  exhibited  in 
Regent  street  by  the  solar  microscope.  They  had  no  longer  any 
decent  appearances  to  keep  up — any  shabby  ones  to  mask  with 


186 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


a  better  face — any  petty  shifts  to  slur  over — any  household  strug* 
gles  to  conceal.  Their  circumstances  were  known  intimately, 
not  merely  to  next-door  neighbors,  and  kith  and  kin,  but  to  the 
whole  parish,  the  whole  county,  the  whole  country.  It  was  one 
of  their  last  few  privileges  to  discuss  in  common  with  the  parlia- 
ment, the  press,  and  the  public,  the  deplorable  details  of  their 
own  affairs.  Their  destitution  was  a  naked  great  fact,  and  they 
talked  of  it  like  proclaimed  bankrupts,  as  they  were,  in  the  wide 
world's  Gazette. 

"  What  matters  V9  said  a  grey-headed  man,  in  fustian,  in  an- 
swer to  a  warning  nudge  and  whisper  from  his  neighbor.  "  If 
walls  has  ears,  they  are  welcome  to  what  they  can  ketch — ay, 
and  the  stranger  to  boot — if  so  be  he  don't  know  all  about  us 
already — for  it's  all  in  print.  What  we  yarn,  and  what  we 
spend — what  we  eat,  and  what  we  drink — what  we  wear,  and 
the  cost  on  it  from  top  to  toe — where  we  sleep,  and  how  many 
on  us  lie  in  a  bed — our  consarns  are  as  common  as  waste  land." 

"  And  as  many  geese  and  donkeys  turned  on  to  them,  I  do 
think  !"  cried  a  young  fellow  in  velveteens — "  to  hear  how  folk 
cackle  and  bray  about  our  states.  And  then  the  queer  remedies 
as  is  prescribed,  like,  for  a  starving  man  !  A  Bible  says  one — 
a  reading  made  easy  says  another — a  temperance  medal  says 
another — or  maybe  a  hagricultural  prize.  But  what  is  he  to  eat, 
I  ax  ?  Why,  says  one,  a  Corkassian  Jew — says  another,  a 
cricket  ball — says  another,  a  may-pole — and  says  another,  the 
Wenus  bound  for  Horsetrailye." 

"  As  if  idle  hands  and  empty  pockets,"  said  the  grey-headed 
man,  "  did  not  make  signs,  of  themselves,  for  work  and  wages 
— and  a  hungry  belly  for  bread  and  cheese." 

"  That's  true  any  how,"  said  one  of  the  water-drinkers.  "  I 
only  wish  that  a  doctor  would  come  at  this  minute,  and  listen 
with  his  telescope  on  my  stomach,  and  he  would  hear  it  a-talking 
as  plain  as  our  magpie,  and  saying,  I  wants  wittles." 

There  was  a  general  peal  of  mirth  at  this  speech,  but  brief, 
and  ending  abruptly,  as  laughter  does,  when  extorted  by  the  odd 
treatment  of  a  serious  subject — a  flash  followed  by  deeper 
gloom.  The  conversation  then  assumed  a  graver  tone ;  each 
man  in  turn  recounting  the  trials,  privations,  and  visitations,  of 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LABORER. 


187 


himself,  his  wife,  and  children,  or  his  neighbor's — not  mentioned 
with  fierceness,  intermingling  oaths  and  threats,  not  with  bitter- 
ness— some  few  allusions  excepted  to  harsh  overseers  or  miserly 
masters — but  as  soldiers  or  sailors  describe  the  hardships  and 
sufferings  they  have  had  to  encounter  in  their  rough  vocation, 
and  evidently  endured  in  their  own  persons  with  a  manly  forti- 
tude. If  the  speaker's  voice  faltered,  or  his  eyes  moistened,  it 
was  only  when  he  painted  the  sharp  bones  showing  through  the 
skin,  the  skin  through  the  rags,  of  the  wife  of  his  bosom ;  or 
how  the  traditional  wolf,  no  longer  to  be  kept  from  the  door,  had 
rushed  in  and  fastened  on  his  young  ones.  What  a  revelation 
it  was  !  Fathers,  with  more  children  than  shillings  per  week — 
mothers  travailing  literally  in  the  straw — infants  starving  before 
the  parents'  eyes,  with  cold,  and  famishing  for  food  !  Human 
creatures,  male  and  female,  old  and  young,  not  gnawed  and  torn 
by  single  woes,  but  worried  at  once  by  winter,  disease,  and  want, 
as  by  that  triple-headed  dug,  whelped  in  the  realm  of  torments ! 

My  ears  tingled,  and  my  cheeks  flushed  with  self-reproach,  re- 
membering my  fretful  impatience  under  my  own  inflictions,  no 
light  ones  either,  till  compared  with  the  heavy  complications  of 
anguish,  moral  and  physical,  experienced  by  those  poor  men. 
My  heart  swelled  with  indignation,  my  soul  sickened  with  dis- 
gust, to  recall  the  sobs,  sighs,  tears,  and  hystericks — the  lamen- 
tations and  imprecations  bestowed  by  pampered  selfishness  on  a 
sick  bird  or  beast,  a  sore  finger,  a  swelled  toe,  a  lost  rubber,  a 
missing  luxury,  an  ill-made  garment,  a  culinary  failure ! — to 
think  of  the  cold  looks  and  harsh  words  cast  by  the  same  eyes 
and  lips,  eloquent  in  self-indulgence,  on  nakedness,  starvation, 
and  poverty.  Wealth,  with  his  own  million  of  money,  pointing 
to  the  new  half- farthings  as  fitting  money  to  the  million — glutto- 
ny, gorged  with  dainties,  washed  down  by  iced  champagne,  com- 
placently commending  his  humble  brethren  to  the  brook  of  Elisha 
and  the  salads  of  Nebuchadnezzar ;  and  fashion,  in  furs  and  vel- 
vet, comfortably  beholding  her  squalid  sisters  shivering  in  robes 
de  zephyr,  woven  by  winter  itself,  with  the  warp  of  a  north,  and 
the  woof  of  an  east  wind  ! 

"  The  job  up  at  Bosely  is  finished,"  said  one  of  the  middle-aged 
men.    "  I  have  enjoyed  but  three  days'  work  in  the  last  fortnight, 


188 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


and  God  above  knows  when  I  shall  get  another,  even  at  a  shilling 
a  day.  And  nine  mouths  to  feed,  big  and  little — and  nine  backs 
to  clothe — with  the  winter  a-setting  in — and  the  rent  behind-hand 
— and  never  a  bed  to  lie  on,  and  my  good  woman,  poor  soul, 

ready  to  " — a  choking  sound  and  a  hasty  gulp  of  water 

smothered  the  rest  of  the  sentence.  "  There  must  be  something 
done  for  us — there  must,"  he  added,  with  an  emphatic  slap  of  his 
broad,  brown,  barky  hand,  that  made  the  glasses  jingle  and  the 
idle  pipes  clatter  on  the  board.  And  every  voice  in  the  room 
echoed  "  there  must,"  my  own  involuntarily  swelling  the  chorus. 

"  Ay,  there  must,  and  that  full  soon,"  said  the  grey-headed 
man  in  fustian,  with  an  upward  appealing  look,  as  if  through  the 
smoky  clouds  of  ihe  ceiling  to  God  himself  for  confirmation  of 
the  necessity.  "  But  come,  lads,  time's  up,  so  let's  have  our 
chant,  and  then  squander. 

The  company  immediately  stood  up;  and  one  of  the  elders 
with  a  deep  bass  voice,  and  to  a  slow  sad  air,  began  a  rude  song, 
the  composition,  probably,  of  some  provincial  poet  of  his  own 
class,  the  rest  of  the  party  joining  occasionally  in  a  verse  that 
served  for  the  burden. 

A  spade  !  a  rake  !  a  hoe ! 

A  pickaxe,  or  a  bill ! 
A  hook  to  reap,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 

A  flail,  or  what  you  will — 
And  here's  a  ready  hand 

To  ply  the  needful  tool, 
And  skilled  enough  by  lessons  rough 

In  labor's  rugged  school. 

To  hedge,  or  dig  the  ditch, 

To  lop  or  fell  the  tree, 
To  lay  the  swarth  on  the  sultry  field, 

Or  plough  the  stubborn  lea, 
The  harvest  stack  to  bind, 

The  wheaten  rick  to  thatch  ; 
And  never  fear  in  my  pouch  to  find 

The  tinder  or  the  match. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LABORER. 


To  a  flaming  barn  or  farm 

My  fancies  never  roam ; 
The  fire  I  yearn  to  kindle  and  burn 

Is  on  the  hearth  of  home ; 
Where  children  huddle  and  crouch 

Through  dark  long  winter  days, 
Where  starving  children  huddle  and  crouch 

To  see  the  cheerful  rays, 
A-glowing  on  the  haggard  cheek, 

And  not  in  the  haggard's  blaze ! 

To  Him  who  sends  a  drought 

To  parch  the  fields  forlorn, 
The  rain  to  flood  the  meadows  with  mud, 

The  blight  to  blast  the  corn — 
To  Him  I  leave  to  guide 

The  bolt  in  its  crooked  path, 
To  strike  the  miser's  rick,  and  show 

The  skies  blood-red  with  wrath. 

A  spade  !  a  rake  !  a  hoe ! 

A  pickaxe,  or  a  bill  ! 
A  hook  to  reap,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 

A  flail,  or  what  ye  will — 
The  corn  to  thrash,  or  the  hedge  to  plash, 

The  market  team  to  drive, 
Or  mend  the  fence  by  the  cover  side, 

And  leave  the  game  alive. 

Ay,  only  give  me  work, 

And  then  you  need  not  fear 
That  I  shall  snare  his  worship's  hare, 

Or  kill  his  grace's  deer- — 
Break  into  his  lordship's  house, 

To  steal  the  plate  so  rich, 
Or  leave  the  yeoman  that  had  a  purse 

To  welter  in  the  ditch. 


PROSE  AND  VERSE 


Wherever  nature  needs, 

Wherever  labor  calls, 
No  job  I'll  shirk  of  the  hardest  work, 

To  shun  the  workhouse  walls ; 
Where  savage  laws  begrudge 

The  pauper  babe  its  breath, 
And  doom  a  wife  to  a  widow's  life 

Before  her  partner's  death. 

My  only  claim  is  this, 

With  labor  stiff  and  stark, 
By  lawful  turn  my  living  to  earn, 

Between  the  light  and  dark — 
My  daily  bread  and  nightly  bed, 

My  bacon  and  drop  of  beer — 
But  all  from  the  hand  that  holds  the  land, 

And  none  from  the  overseer  ! 

No  parish  money  or  loaf, 

No  pauper  badges  for  me, 
A  son  of  the  soil,  by  right  of  toil, 

Entitled  to  my  fee. 
No  alms  I  ask,  give  me  my  task : 

Here  are  the  arm,  the  leg, 
The  strength,  the  sinews  of  a  man. 

To  work,  and  not  to  beg* 

Still  one  of  Adam's  heirs, 

Though  doomed  by  chance  of  birth 
To  dress  so  mean,  and  eat  the  lean 

Instead  of  the  fat  of  the  earth ; 
To  make  such  humble  meals 

As  honest  labor  can, 
A  bone  and  a  crust,  with  a  grace  to  God, 

And  little  thanks  to  man ! 

A  spade  !  a  rake  !  a  hoe ! 

A  pickaxe,  or  a  bill ! 
A  hook  to  reap,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LABORER. 


J9J 


A  flail,  or  what  ye  will — 
Whatever  the  tool  to  ply, 

Here  is  a  willing  drudge, 
With  muscle  and  limb — and  wo  to  him 

Who  does  their  pay  begrudge. 

Who  every  weekly  score 

Docks  labor's  little  mite, 
Bestows  on  the  poor  at  the  temple-door, 

But  robbed  them  over-night. 
The  very  shilling  he  hoped  to  save, 

As  health  and  morals  fail, 
Shall  visit  me  in  the  New  Bastile, 

The  spital  or  the  gaol ! 

As  the  last  ominous  word  ceased  ringing,  the  candle-wick  sud- 
denly dropped  into  the  neck  of  the  stone  bottle,  and  all  was  dark- 
ness and  silence. 

*       *       *       *       *       *       #  * 

The  vision  is  dispelled — the  fiction  is  gone — but  a  fact  and  a 
figure  remain. 

Some  time  since  a  strong  inward  impulse  moved  me  to  paint 
the  destitution  of  an  overtasked  class  of  females,  who  work,  work, 
work,  for  wages  almost  nominal.  But  deplorable  as  is  their 
condition,  in  the  low  deep,  there  is,  it  seems,  a  lower  still — below 
that  gloomy  gulf  a  darker  region  of  human  misery — beneath 
that  purgatory  a  hell — resounding  with  more  doleful  wailings 
and  a  sharper  outcry — the  voice  of  famishing  wretches,  pleading 
vainly  for  work  !  work  !  work  ! — imploring  as  a  blessing,  what 
was  laid  upon  man  as  a  curse — the  labor  that  wrings  sweat  from 
the  brow,  and  bread  from  the  soil ! 

As  a  matter  of  conscience,  that  wail  touches  me  not.  As  my 
works  testify,  I  am  of  the  working  class  myself,  and  in  my  hum. 
ble  sphere  furnish  employment  for  many  hands,  including  paper- 
makers,  draughtsmen,  engravers,  compositors,  pressmen,  binders, 
folders,  and  stitchers — and  critics — all  receiving  a  fair  day's  wa- 
ges for  a  fair  day's  work.  My  gains  consequently  are  limited — 
not  nearly  so  enormous  as  have  been  realized  upon  shirts,  slops, 


192 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


6ha\vls,  &c. — curiously  illustrating  how  a  man  or  woman  might 
be  "  clothed  with  curses  as  with  a  garment. "  My  fortune  may 
be  expressed  without  a  long  row  of  those  ciphers — those  O's  at 
once  significant  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  pounds,  and  as  many 
ejaculations  of  pain  and  sorrow  from  dependent  slaves.  My 
wealth  might  all  be  hoarded,  if  I  were  miserly,  in  a  gallipot  or  a 
tin  snuff-box.  My  guineas,  placed  edge  to  edge,  instead  of  ex- 
tending from  the  Minories  to  Golden  Square,  would  barely  reach 
from  home  to  Bread  Street.  My  riches  would  hardly  allow  me 
a  roll  in  them,  even  if  turned  into  the  new  copper  mites.  But 
then,  thank  God  !  no  reproach  clings  to  my  coin.  No  tears  or 
blood  clog  the  meshes,  no  hair,  plucked  in  desperation,  is  knitted 
with  the  silk  of  my  lean  purse.  No  consumptive  sempstress  can 
point  at  me  her  bony  forefinger,  and  say,  "  For  thee,  sewing  in 
formd  pauperis,  I  am  become  this  living  skeleton!"  or  hold  up 
to  me  her  fatal  needle,  as  one  through  the  eye  of  which  the 
scriptural  camel  must  pass  ere  I  may  hope  to  enter  heaven.  No 
withered  work-woman,  shaking  at  me  her  dripping  suicidal  locks, 
can  cry,  in  a  piercing  voice,  "  For  thee,  and  for  six  poor  pence, 
I  embroidered  eighty  flowers  on  this  veil " — literally  a  veil  of 
tears.  No  famishing  laborer,  his  joints  racked  with  toil,  holds 
out  to  me  in  the  palm  of  his  broad  hard  hand  seven  miserable 
shillings,  and  mutters,  "  For  these,  and  a  parish  loaf,  for  six 
long  days,  from  dawn  till  dusk,  through  hot  and  cold,  through  wet 
and  dry,  I  tilled  thy  land  I"  My  short  sleeps  are  peaceful  ;  my 
dreams  untroubled.  No  ghastly  phantoms  with  reproachful 
faces,  and  silence  more  terrible  than  speech,  haunt  my  quiet  pil- 
low. No  victims  of  slow  murder,  ushered  by  the  avenging 
fiends,  beset  my  couch,  and  make  awful  appointments  with  me 
to  meet  at  the  Divine  bar  on  the  day  of  judgment.  No  deformed 
human  creatures — men,  women,  and  children,  smirched  black 
as  negroes,  transfigured  suddenly,  as  demons  of  the  pit,  clutch 
at  my  heels  to  drag  me  down,  down,  down,  an  unfathomable 
shaft,  into  a  gaping  Tartarus.  And  if  sometimes  in  waking 
visions  I  see  throngs  of  little  faces,  with  features  preternaturally 
sharp,  and  wrinkled  brows,  and  dull,  seared  orbs — grouped  with 
pitying  clusters  of  the  young-eyed  cherubim — not  for  me,  thank 
Heaven !  did  those  crippled  children  become  prematurely  old  ; 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LABORER. 


193 


and  precociously  evaporate,  like  so  much  steam  power,  the 
"dew  of  their  youth." 

For  me,  then,  that  doleful  cry  from  the  starving  unemployed, 
has  no  extrinsic  horror  ;  no  peculiar  pang,  beyond  that  sympa- 
thetic one  which  must  affect  the  species  in  general.  Neverthe- 
less, amidst  the  dismal  chorus,  one  complaining  voice  rings  dis- 
tinctly on  my  inward  ear ;  one  melancholy  figure  flits  promi- 
nently before  my  mind's  eye — vague  of  feature,  indeed,  and  in 
form  with  only  the  common  outlines  of  humanity — but  the  Eido- 
lon of  a  real  person,  a  living,  breathing  man,  with  a  known 
name.  One  whom  I  have  never  seen  in  the  flesh,  never  spoken 
with  ;  yet  whose  very  words  a  still  small  voice  is,  even  now, 
whispering  to  me,  I  know  not  whence,  like  the  wind  from  a 
cloud. 

For  months  past,  that  indistinct  figure,  associated,  as  in  a 
dream,  with  other  dim  images,  but  all  mournful — stranger  faces, 
male  and  female,  convulsed  with  grief — huge  hard  hands,  and 
smaller  and  tenderer  ones,  wrung  in  speechless  anguish,  and 
everlasting  farewells — involved  with  obscure  ocean  waves,  and 
momentary  glimpses  of  outlandish  scenery — for  months  past, 
amidst  trials  of  my  own,  in  the  intervals  of  acute  pain,  perchance 
even  in  my  delirium,  and  through  the  variegated  tissue  of  my 
own  interests  and  affairs,  that  sorrowful  vision  has  recurred  to 
me,  more  or  less  vividly,  with  the  intense  sense  of  suffering, 
cruelty,  and  injustice,  and  the  strong  emotions  of  pity  and  indig- 
nation, which  originated  with  its  birth. 

It  may  be,  that  some  peculiar  condition  of  the  body,  inducing 
a  morbid  state  of  mind — some  extreme  excitability  of  the  nerves, 
and  through  them,  of  the  moral  sensibility,  concurred  to  induce 
so  deep  an  impression,  to  make  so  warm  a  sympathy  attach  it- 
self to  a  mere  phantom,  the  representative  of  an  obscure  indi- 
vidual, an  utter  stranger.  The  reader  must  judge  :  and,  when 
the  case  of  my  unknown,  unconscious,  invisible  client  shall  be 
laid  before  him,  will  be  able  to  say,  whether  it  required  any  un- 
natural sensitiveness  of  the  system,  any  extraordinary  softening 
of  the  heart  or  brain,  to  feel  a  strong  human  interest  in  the  fate 
of  Gifford  White. 

In  the  spring  of  the  present  year,  this  very  unfortunate  and 

Part  ii.  14 


194 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


very  young  man  was  indicted,  at  the  Huntingdon  Assizes,  for 
throwing  the  following  letter,  addressed,  externally,  and  inter- 
nally,  to  the  farmers  of  Bluntisham,  Hunts,  into  a  strawyard  : — 

"  We  are  determined  to  set  fire  to  the  whole  of  this  place,  if  you  don't 
set  us  to  work,  and  burn  you  in  your  beds  if  there  is  not  alteration.  What 
do  you  think  the  young  men  are  to  do,  if  you  don't  set  them  to  work  ? 
They  must  do  something.  The  fact  is,  we  cannot  go  on  any  longer.  We 
must  commit  robbery,  and  everything  that  is  contrary  to  your  wish. 

"  I  am, 

"An  Enemy." 

For  this  offence,  admitted  by  his  plea,  the  prisoner,  aged 
eighteen,  was  sentenced  by  a  judge  since  deceased,  to  transpor- 
tation for  life  ! 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  palliate  incendiarism.  Least  of  all, 
when  so  many  conflagrations  have  recently  illuminated  the  hori- 
zon ;  and  so  near  the  time  when  the  memory  of  that  arch  incen- 
diary, Guy  Faux,  will  be  revived  by  effigies  and  bonfires.  I 
am  fully  aware  of  the  risk  of  even  this  appeal,  at  such  a  season, 
but  with  that  pleading  shade  before  me,  dare  the  reddest  reflec- 
tions that  may  be  cast  on  this  paper. 

Only  catch  a  real  incendiary,  bring  his  guilt  clearly  home  to 
him,  and  let  him  suffer"  the  extreme  penalty  of  the  law.  Hang 
him.  Or,  if  absolutely  opposed  to  capital  punishment,  and  in- 
clined towards  the  philanthropy  of  a  very,  French  philosophy, 
adopt  the  Christianly  substitute  recommended  in  the  "  Mysteries 
of  Paris,"  and  blind  the  criminal.  Let  fire  avenge  fire,  and, 
according  to  the  prescription  for  Prince  Arthur,  with  irons  hot 
burn  out  both  his  eyes.  Cruel  and  extreme  as  such  tortures 
may  seem,  they  would  scarcely  expiate  one  of  the  most  dastardly 
and  atrocious  of  human  crimes,  inasmuch  as  the  perpetrator  can 
neither  control  its  extent,  nor  calculate  the  results. 

The  truth  is,  my  faith  stops  far  short  of  the  popular  belief  in 
the  prevalence  of  wilful  and  malignant  fire-raising — that  an  epi- 
demic of  that  inflammatory  character  is  so  rife  and  raging  as 
represented  in  the  provinces.  I  am  too  jealous  of  the  national 
character,  too  chary  of  the  good  name  of  my  humble  country- 
men, and  think  too  well  of  "  a  bold  peasantry,  our  country's 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LABORER. 


195 


pride,"  to  look  on  them,  willingly,  as  a  mere  pack  of  Samson's 
foxes,  running  from  farm  to  farm,  with  fire-brands  tied  to  their 
tails.  If  there  be  any  notable  increase  in  the  number  of  fires, 
some  portion  of  the  excess  may  be  fairly  attributable  to  causes 
which  have  converted  simple  risks  into  doubly  hazardous  ;  for 
example,  the  prevalence  of  cigar  smoking,  and  especially,  the 
substitution  for  the  old  tinder-box,  of  dangerous  chemical  contri- 
vances, facile  of  ignition,  and  distributed  by  myriads  throughout 
the  country.  Talismans  that,  like  the  Arabian  ones,  on  a  slight 
rubbing,  place  a  demon  at  the  command  of  the  possessor — spells 
which  have  subjected  the  fire  spirit  to  the  instant  invocation  not 
merely  of  the  wicked,  but  of  the  weak  and  the  witless,  the  infant 
and  the  idiot.  Generally,  we  work  and  play  with  the  element 
more  profusely  than  formerly :  witness  the  glowing  flames, 
flakes,  sparks,  and  cinders,  that  sweep  across  streets,  over  seas 
and  rivers,  and  along  railroads,  from  the  chimneys,  funnels,  and 
furnaces,  of  the  factories,  and  floating  and  flying  conveyances 
of  Pluto,  Vulcan,  and  Company.  Another  cause,  spontaneous 
combustion,  has  lately  been  convicted  of  the  destruction  of  the 
railway  station  at  New  Cross  ;  and  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose 
that  conflagrations  from  carelessness,  and  excessive  house-warm- 
ings from  inebriety,  are  less  common  than  of  old.  Children  will 
still  play  with  fire  ;  servants,  town  and  country,  persist  in  snuff- 
ing long  wicks,  as  well  as  noses,  with  finger  and  thumb  ;  and 
agricultural  distress  has  not  so  annihilated  the  breed  of  jolly 
farmers,  but  that  one,  here  and  there,  is  still  capable  of  blowing 
himself  out,  and  putting  his  candle  to  bed. 

In  the  meantime,  vulgar  exaggeration  ascribes  every  "  rapid 
consumption  "  of  property,  not  clearly  traceable  to  accident,  to 
a  malicious  design.  The  English  public,  according  to  Gold- 
smith, are  prone  to  panics,  and  he  instances  them  as  arming 
themselves  with  thick  gloves  and  stout  cudgels  against  certain 
popular  bugbears  in  the  shapes  of  mad  dogs.  And  a  fatal  thing 
it  is,  proverbially,  for  the  canine  race  to  get  an  ill  name.  But 
a  panic  becomes  a  far  more  tragical  affair,  when  it  arms  one 
class  of  society  against  another  ;  and,  instead  of  mere  brutes 
and  curs  of  low  degree,  animals  of  our  own  species  are  hunted 
down  and  hung,  or,  at  best,  all  but  banished  to  another  world, 


1% 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


by  transportation  for  life.  It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  some 
such  local  panic  did  not  influence  the  very  severe  sentence 
passed  on  Gifford  White.  Indeed,  the  existence  of  something  of 
the  kind  seems  intimated  by  the  Judge  himself,  along  with  the 
extraordinary  dictum  that  a  verbal  burn  is  worse  than  the  actual 
cautery.    Lord  Abinger  said  : — 

"  The  offence  was  of  a  mogt  atrocious  character ;  and  it 
might  almost  be  said,  that  the  sending  of  letters  threatening  to 
burn  the  property  of  the  parties  to  whom  they  were  addressed 
was  worse  than  putting  the  threat  in  execution  ;  for  when  a  man 
lost  his  property  by  fire,  he  at  least  knew  the  worst  of  it ;  but 
he  to  whom  such  threats  were  made,  was  made  to  live  in  a  state 
of  continual  terror  and  alarm." 

Very  true — and  very  harshly  applied.  The  farmers  of  Blunt- 
isham  are  not  of  my  acquaintance ;  but  presuming  them  to  be 
not  more  nervous  and  timorsome  than  farmers  in  general,  might 
not  their  terror  and  alarm  have  been  pacified  on  rather  easier 
terms  ?  Would  not  the  banishment  of  the  culprit  for  seven,  or 
at  most  fourteen  years,  have  allowed  time,  ample  time,  for  the 
yeomanly  nerves  to  have  recovered  their  tone ;  for  their  affrighted 
hair,  erect  as  stubble,  to  have  subsided  prone  as  rolled  grass ; 
nay,  for  the  very  name  of  Gifford  White  to  have  evaporated 
from  their  agricultural  heads  ?  Were  I  a  Bluntisham  farmer,  I 
could  not  eat  with  relish  another  rasher  of  bacon,  or  swallow 
with  satisfaction  another  glass  of  strong  ale,  without  protesting 
publicly  against  such  a  sacrifice  to  my  supposed  aspen-fits,  and 
setting  on  foot  a  petition  amongst  my  neighbors  for  a  mitigation 
of  that  severe  and  satirical  sentence  which  condemned  a  fellow 
parishioner  to  expiate  my  fears  by  fifty-two  years  of  penance — 
according  to  the  scriptural  calculation  of  human  life — in  the 
land  of  the  kangaroo.  I  could  not  sleep  soundly,  and  know  that 
for  my  sake  a  son  of  the  same  soil  had  been  rooted  out  like  a 
common  weed — severed  from  kith  and  kin ;  from,  hearth  and 
home,  if  he  had  one  ;  from  his  mother-country,  hard  step-mother 
though  she  had  proved ;  from  a  familiar  land  and  native  air,  to 
a  foreign  one  and  a  new  climate,  with  strange  faces  around  him, 
and  strange  stars  above  him, — a  banished  man,  not  for  a  little 
while,  or  for  a  long  while,  but  for  ever ! 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LABORER. 


197 


But,  methinks  I  hear  a  voice  say,  it  was  necessary  to  make  an 
example — a  proceeding  always  accompanied  by  a  certain  degree 
of  hardship,  if  not  injustice,  as  regards  the  party  selected  to  be 
punished  in  terrorem  ;  unless  the  choice  be  made  of  a  criminal 
especially  deserving  such  a  painful  preference — as  for  robbery 
with  personal  violence  :  whereas  there  appear  to  be  no  aggrava- 
tions of  the  offence  for  which  Gifford  White  was  sentenced  to  a 
murderer's  atonement.  On  the  contraiy,  he  pleaded  guilty  :  a 
course  generally  admitted  as  an  extenuation  of  guilt :  his  youth 
ought  to  have  been  a  circumstance  in  his  favor ;  and  above  all, 
the  consideration  that  a  threat  does  not  necessarily  involve  the 
intent,  much  less  the  deed.  All  who  have  been  led,  by  word  or 
writing,  to  hope  or  fear  for  good  or  evil,  have  had  reason  to  know 
how  far  is  promise  from  performance, — as  far  as  England  from 
New  South  Wales.  Expectants  never  die  the  sooner  for  golden 
prospects  held  out  to  them  ;  and  threatened  folks  are  long-lived, 
to  a  proverb.  And  why  ?  Because  the  enemy  who  announces 
his  designs  is  the  least  dangerous ;  as  the  Scotch  say,  "  his  bark 
is  waur  than  his  bite."  The  truth  is,  menaces  are  about  the 
most  abundant,  idle,  and  empty  of  human  vaporings ;  the  mere 
puffings,  blowings,  gruntings,  and  growlings  from  the  safety- 
valves  and  waste-pipes  of  high-pressure  engines.  The  promis- 
sory notes  of  threateners  to  large  amounts  are  ludicrously  asso- 
ciated, instead  of  payment,  with  "  no  effects."  Who  of  us  has 
not  heard  a  good  mother,  a  fond  mother,  a  doting  mother,  but 
sharp-tempered,  promise  her  own  dear  but  troublesome  offspring, 
her  very  pets,  such  savage  inflictions,  such  breaking  of  bones 
and  knocking  off  plaguy  little  heads,  as  ought,  sincerely  uttered, 
to  have  consigned  her  to  the  custody  of  the  police  1  There,  as 
my  Uncle  Toby  says,  she  found  vent.  Who  has  never  known 
a  friend,  a  worthy  man,  but  a  passionate  one,  to  indulge  in  such 
murderous  threats  against  the  life,  body,  and  limbs  of  a  tight 
boot-maker,  or  a  loose  tailor  ;  a  blunt  creditor,  or  a  sharp  critic  ; 
as  ought,  if  in  earnest,  to  have  placed  him  in  handcuffs  and  a 
strait  waistcoat  ?  But  nobody  mistakes  these  blazes  of  temper 
for  the  burnings  of  settled  malignity — these  harmless  flashes  of 
sheet  lightning  for  the  destructive  gleam  of  the  forked.  It  is 
quite  oossible,  therefore,  that  the  incendiary  letter  of  Gifford 


198 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


White,  though  breathing  Congreves  and  Lucifers,  was  purely 
theoretical  ;  albeit  read  by  the  judge  as  if  in  serious  earnest, 
like  the  fulminating  prospectuses  of  the  Due  de  Normandie  or 
Captain  Warner. 

I  confess  to  have  searched,  in  vain,  through  the  epistle  for 
any  animus  of  peculiar  atrocity.  Its  address,  generally  to  the 
farmers,  shows  it  not  to  have  been  the  inspiration  of  personal 
malice  or  private  revenge.  The  threat  is  not  a  direct  and  posi- 
tive one,  as  in  resolved  retaliation  for  some  by-gone  wrong ;  but 
put  hypothetically,  and  rather  in  the  nature  of  a  warning  of 
probable  consequences,  dependent  on  future  contingencies.  The 
wish  of  the  writer  is  obviously  not  father  to  the  menace  :  on  the 
contrary,  he  expostulates,  appeals,  methinks  most  touchingly,  to 
the  reason,  the  justice,  even  the  compassion,  of  the  very  parties 
— to  be  burnt  in  their  beds.  So  clear  a  proof,  to  me,  of  the  ab- 
sence of  any  serious  intent,  or  malice  prepense,  that  the  only 
agitation  from  the  fall  of  such  a  missive  in  my  farm-yard,  if  I 
had  one,  would  be  the  flutter  amongst  the  poultry.  At  least 
theirs  would  be  the  only  personal  terror  and  alarm, — for,  with 
other  feelings,  who  could  fail  to  be  moved  by  a  momentous  ques- 
tion and  declaration  reechoed  by  hundreds  and  thousands  of  able 
and  willing  but  starving  laborers  ?  "  What  are  we  to  do  if  you 
don't  set  us  to  work  ?  We  must  do  something.  The  fact  is,  we 
cannot  go  on  any  longer  V 

Can  the  wholesale  emigration,  so  often  proposed,  be  only 
transportation  in  disguise  for  using  such  language  in  common 
with  Gifford  White. 

To  me — speaking  from  my  heart,  and  recording  my  delibe- 
rate opinions  on  a  material  that,  frail  as  it  is,  will  long  outlast 
my  own  fabric, — there  is  something  deeply  affecting  in  the  spec- 
tacle of  a  young  man,  in  the  prime  of  health  and  vigor,  offering 
himself,  a  voluntary  slave,  in  the  labor-market  without  a  pur- 
chaser— eagerly  proffering  to  barter  the  use  of  his  body,  the 
day-long  exertion  of  his  strength,  the  wear  and  tear  of  flesh  and 
blood,  bone  and  muscle,  for  the  common  necessaries  of  life — 
earnestly  craving  for  bread  on  the  penal  conditions  prescribed 
by  his  Creator — and  in  vain — in  vain  !  Well  for  those  who  en- 
joy each  blessing  of  earth  that  there  are  volunteers  to  work  out 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LABORER. 


193 


the  curse  !  Well  for  the  drones  of  the  social  hive  that  there  are 
Dees  of  so  industrious  a  turn,  willing  for  an  infinitesimal  share 
of  the  honey  to  undertake  the  labor  of  its  fabrication  ! 

Let  these  considerations  avail  an  unfortunate  man,  or  rather 
youth,  perhaps  an  oppressed  one,  subject  to  the  tyranny  of  some 
such  ticket  system  as  lately  required  the  interference  of  the  home 
secretary,  in  behalf  of  the  laborers  of  another  county.  

Methinks  I  see  him,  poor  phantom  !  an  impertinent  unit  of  a 
surplus  population,  humbly  pleading  for  bread,  and  offered  an 
acre  of  stones — to  be  cleared  at  five  farthings  a  rood.  Work 
and  wages  for  the  asking  ! — with  the  double  alternative  of  the 
Union-house,  or  a  free  passage — the  North- West  one — to  the 
still  undiscovered  coast  of  Bohemia !  

Is  a  rash  youth,  so  wrought  on,  to  be  eternally  Ex-Isled  from 
this  sweet  little  one  of  our  own,  for  only  throwing  a  few  intem- 
perate "  thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burn "  into  an 
anonymous  letter  ? 

Let  these  things  plead  for  a  fellow-creature,  goaded,  perhaps, 
by  the  sense  of  wrong,  as  well  as  the  physical  pangs  of  hunger, 
and  driven  by  the  neglect  of  all  milder  applications  to  appeal  to 
the  selfish  fears  of  men  who  will  neither  read  the  signs  of  the 
times,  nor  heed  warnings,  unless  written,  like  Belshazzar's,  in 
letters  of  fire ! 

One  thing  is  certain.  These  are  not  times  for  visiting  with 
severity  the  offences  of  the  laboring  poor ;  a  class  who,  it  is  ad- 
mitted by  all  parties,  have  borne  the  severest  trials  that  can  af- 
flict the  soul  and  body  of  man,  with  an  exemplary  fortitude,  and 
a  patience  almost  superhuman.  A  great  fact  at  which  every 
true  Englishman  should  exult,  as  at  a  national  victory,  as  in 
moral  heroism  it  is.  I,  for  one,  am  proud  of  my  poor  country- 
men, and  naturally  loth  to  believe  that  a  character  which  so 
reluctantly  combines  with  disaffection,  and  indulges  so  sparely 
in  outbreak,  will  freely  absorb  so  vile  a  spirit  as  that  of  incen- 
diarism. At  any  rate,  before  rashly  adopting  such  a  conclusion, 
common  justice  and  common  sense  bid  me  look  elsewhere  for 
the  causes  of  any  unusual  number  of  fires  in  the  rural  districts. 
As  a  mere  matter  of  patriotism,  one  would  rather  ascribe  such 
unfilial  outrages  to  an  alien  than  to  a  son  of  the  soil.    We  have 


200 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


lately  seen  a  foreign  prince,  an  ally,  in  a  time  of  peace  specu- 
lating with  much  playful  naivete  on  the  best  modes  for  squib- 
bing  our  shipping  and  rocketing  our  harbors — the  facility  with 
which  he  could  ignite  the  Thames  and  mull  the  Med  way — sink 
the  Cinque  Ports — blow  off  Beachy's  head,  shiver  Deal  into 
splinters,  and  knock  the  two  Reculver  steeples  into  one.  His 
Highness,  it  is  true,  contemplated  a  bellicose  state,  ceremoniously 
proclaimed  according  to  the  usage  of  polite  nations  ;  but  suppose 
some  outlandish  savage,  as  uncivilized  as  unshorn,  say  from 
Terra  del  Fuego,  animated  with  an  insane  hostility  to  England, 
and  burning  to  test  his  skill  in  Pyrotechnics — might  not  such  a 
barbarian  be  tempted  to  dispense  with  a  formal  declaration  of 
war,  and  make  a  few  experimental  essays  how  to  introduce  his 
treacherous  combustibles  into  our  perfidious  towns  and  hamlets  ? 
Foreign  incendiaries  for  me,  rather  than  native ;  and  accident 
or  spontaneous  combustion  before  either  !  But  if  we  must  be- 
lieve in  it  home-made — surely,  in  preference  to  the  industrious 
laborer,  suspicion  should  fall  on  those  sturdy  trampers  that  infest 
the  country,  the  foremost  to  crave  for  food  and  money,  the  last 
to  ask  for  work,  and  one  of  whom  might  light  up  a  dozen  par- 
ishes.  If  it  be  otherwise,  if  a  class  eminently  loyal,  patient 
peaceable,  and  rational,  have  really  become  such  madmen  throw- 
ing about  fire,  it  is  high  time,  methinks,  with  universal  Artesian 
borings,  to  begin  to  scuttle  our  island  for  fear  of  its  being  burnt. 
But  no — that  Shadow  of  an  incendiary,  with  uplifted  hands,  and 
streaming  repentant  eyes,  disavows  with  earnest  gesture  the  foul 
intent ;  and  shadow  as  he  is,  my  belief  acquits  him,  and  makes 
me  echo  the  imaginary  sigh  with  which  he  fades  again  into  tha 
foggy  distance  between  me  and  Port  Sydney. 

It  is  in  your  power,  Sir  James  Graham !  to  lay  the  ghost  that 
is  haunting  me.  But  that  is  a  trifle.  By  a  due  intercession 
with  the  earthly  fountain  of  mercy,  you  may  convert  a  melan- 
choly shadow  into  a  happier  reality — a  righted  man — a  much 
pleasanter  image  to  mingle  in  our  waking  visions,  as  well  as  in 
those  dreams  which,  as  Hamlet  conjectures,  may  soothe  or  dis- 
turb us  in  our  coffins.  Think,  sir,  of  poor  Gifford  "White — in. 
quire  into  his  hard  case,  and  give  it  your  humane  consideration, 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LABORER. 


201 


as  that  of  a  fellow-man  with  an  immortal  soul — a  "  possible  an- 
gel " — to  be  met  hereafter  face  to  face. 

To  me,  should  this  appeal  meet  with  any  success,  it  will  be 
one  of  the  dearest  deeds  of  my  pen.  I  shall  not  repent  a  wide 
deviation  from  my  usual  course  ;  or  begrudge  the  pain  and 
trouble  caused  me  by  the  providential  visitings  of  an  importunate 
phantom.  In  any  case,  my  own  responsibility  is  at  an  end.  I 
have  relieved  my  heart,  appeased  my  conscience,  and  absolved 
my  soul. 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS 


"  Drowned !  drowned !" — Hamlet 

One  more  Unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care  ;  

Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements ; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing 
Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing. — 

Touch  her  not  scornfully  ; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
Gently  and  humanly ; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her, 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now,  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 
Rash  and  undutiful ; 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 


Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses  ; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father  1 
Who  was  her  mother  ? 
Had  she  a  sister  ? 
Had  she  a  brother  ? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

Alas  !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun  ! 
Oh  !  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly, 
Feelings  had  changed : 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence  ; 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 


PROSE  AND  VERSE, 


With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood,  with  amazement, 
Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 
Or  the  black  flowing  river  : 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 
Swift  to  be  hurl'd — 
Anywhere,  anywhere 
Out  of  the  \yorld  ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran, — 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it, — think  of  it, 
Dissolute  Man ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it 
Then,  if  you  can  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 
Decently, — -kindly, — 
Smoothe,  and  compose  them  j 
Ana  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly  ! 

Dreadfully  staring 
Through  muddy  impurity, 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS 


200 


As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 
Into  her  rest. — 
Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 
Over  her  breast ! 

Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  evil  behavior, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour  ! 


'206 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


THE  LADY'S  DREAM. 


The  lady  lay  in  her  bed, 

Her  couch  so  warm  and  soft, 
But  her  sleep  was  restless  and  broken  still ; 

For  turning  often  and  oft 
From  side  to  side,  she  muttered  and  moan'd 

And  toss'd  her  arms  aloft. 

At  last  she  started  up, 

And  gazed  on  the  vacant  air, 
With  a  look  of  awe,  as  if  she  saw 

Some  dreadful  phantom  there — 
And  then  in  the  pillow  she  buried  her  face 

From  visions  ill  to  bear. 

The  very  curtain  shook, 

Her  terror  was  so  extreme, 
And  the  light  that  fell  on  the  broidered  quilt 

Kept  a  tremulous  gleam  ; 
And  her  voice  was  hollow,  and  shook  as  she  cried, 

"  Oh  me  !  that  awful  dream  ! 

That  weary,  weary  walk, 

In  the  churchyard's  dismal  ground  ! 
And  those  horrible  things,  with  shady  wings, 

That  came  and  flitted  round, — 
Death,  death,  and  nothing  but  death, 

In  every  sight  and  sound  ! 


THE  LADY'S  DREAM 


207 


u  And  oh  !  those  maidens  young, 
Who  wrought  in  that  dreary  room, 

With  figures  drooping  and  spectres  thin, 
And  cheeks  without  a  bloom  ; — 

And  the  voice  that  cried,  1  For  the  pomp  of  pride 
We  haste  to  an  early  tomb !' 

"  For  the  pomp  and  pleasures  of  pride  ; 

We  toil  like  the  African  slaves, 
And  only  to  earn  a  home  at  last, 

Where  yonder  cypress  waves  ; — 
And  then  it  pointed — I  never  saw 

A  ground  so  full  of  graves  ! 

"  And  still  the  coffins  came, 

With  their  sorrowful  trains  and  slow  ; 
Coffin  after  coffin  still, 

A  sad  and  sickening  show  ; 
From  grief  exempt,  I  never  had  dreamt 

Of  such  a  world  of  Wo  ! 

"  Of  the  hearts  that  daily  break, 

Of  the  tears  that  hourly  fall, 
Of  the  many,  many  troubles  of  life, 

That  grieve  this  earthly  ball- — 
Disease,  and  Hunger,  Pain,  and  Want, 

But  now  I  dream  of  them  all ! 

"For  the  blind  and  the  cripple  were  there, 

And  the  babe  that  pined  for  bread, 
And  the  houseless  man,  and  the  widow  poor 

Who  begged — to  bury  the  dead  ! 
The  naked,  alas,  that  I  might  have  clad, 

The  famished  I  might  have  fed  ! 

"  The  sorrow  I  might  have  soothed, 

And  the  unregarded  tears  ; 
For  many  a  thronging  shape  was  there, 

From  long  forgotten  years, 


908 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


Ay,  even  the  poor  rejected  Moor, 
Who  raised  my  childish  fears  ! 

"  Each  pleading  look,  that  long  ago 
I  scanned  with  a  heedless  eye  ; 

Each  face  was  gazing  as  plainly  there, 
As  when  I  passed  it  by  ; 

Wo,  wo  for  me  if  the  past  should  be 
Thus  present  when  I  die  I 

"  No  need  of  sulphurous  lake, 

No  need  of  fiery  coal, 
But  only  that  crowd  of  human  kind 

Who  wanted  pity  and  dole — 
In  everlasting  retrospect — 

Will  wring  my  sinful  soul ! 

Alas  !  I  have  walked  through  life 

Too  heedless  where  I  trod  ; 
Nay,  helping  to  trample  my  fellow  worm, 

And  fill  the  burial  sod — 
Forgetting  that  even  the  sparrow  falls 

Not  unmarked  of  God  ! 

"  I  drank  the  richest  draughts  ; 

And  ate  whatever  is  good — 
Fish,  and  flesh,  and  fowl,  and  fruit, 

Supplied  my  hungry  mood  ; 
But  I  never  remembered  the  wretched  ones 

That  starve  for  want  of  food  ! 

"  I  dressed  as  the  noble  dress, 

In  cloth  of  silver  and  gold, 
With  silk,  and  satin,  and  costly  furs, 

In  many  an  ample  fold  ; 
But  I  never  remembered  the  naked  limbs 

That  froze  with  winter's  cold. 

"  The  wounds  I  might  have  healed ! 
The  human  sorrow  and  smart ! 


THE  LADY'S  DREAM. 


And  yet  it  never  was  in  my  soul 

To  play  so  ill  a  part : 
But  evil  is  wrought  by  want  of  Thought, 

As  well  as  want  of  Heart !" 

She  clasped  her  fervent  hands, 
And  the  tears  began  to  stream ; 

Large,  and  bitter,  and  fast  they  fell, 
Remorse  was  so  extreme  ; 

And  yet,  oh  yet,  that  many  a  Dame 
Would  dream  the  Lady's  Dream  ! 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 


With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread- 
Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, 

She  sang  the  "  song  of  the  Shirt !" 

"  Work  !  work !  work  ! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 
And  work — work — work  ! 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof ! 
It's  oh  !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save 

If  this  is  Christian  work  ! 

u  Work — work — work  ! 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim  ; 
Work — work — work  ! 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  ! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  my  dream  ! 

"  Oh  !  men  with  sisters  dear  1 

Oh  !  men  with  mothers  and  wives  ! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 


It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives  ! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt; 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt ! 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  death, 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone  ; 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape,  » 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fast  I  keep  : 
Oh  God  !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  ! 

"  Work — work — work  ! 

My  labor  never  flags  ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?    A  bed  of  straw 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags  : 
A  shattered  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 

A  table — a  broken  chair — 
And  a  wall  so  blank  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  ! 

"  Work — work — work  ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime  ; 
Work — work — work  ! 

As  prisoners  work,  for  crime ! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 
Till  the  heart  is  sick  and  the  brain  benumbed, 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand ! 

"  Work — work — work, 

In  the  dull  December  light ; 
And  work — work — work  ! 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright : 
While  underneath  the  eaves 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 
And  twit  me  with  the  Spring. 

"  Oh  !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet ; 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet : 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  fee*  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

"  Oh  !  but  for  one  short  hour ! 

A  respite,  however  brief! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart — 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  !" 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread ; 
Stitch — stitch — stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger  and  dirt ; 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich  ! — 

She  sung  this  "  Song  of  the  shirt  V 


